


Raindrops from the Angels' Tears

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Cancer, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, chemo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-28 19:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: Neal, one of the world's most infamous con man, is sick and there is no lying to get out of this one. He may lose his hair, his appetite, and some of is sanity, but Peter will do everything he can to keep his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IamNegan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=IamNegan).



> I understand this is a sensitive topic, so there are plenty of warnings for those that do not wish to read. This will be sad and sometimes painful, but it will also be about fighting and not losing hope. 
> 
> I am merely expressing how I feel, and I am able to do that best by my writing. 
> 
> This story is for IamNegan. He is a brave warrior of life.

Through the thick glass Peter watched Neal asleep, though the purple hue underneath both his eyes indicated he was anything but rested. An oxygen mask lay over his mouth and nose, fogging up every time he exhaled.

A thin blue paper gown adorned his body, but it didn’t really fit and his collar bone peaked easily against the skin. His arms had shrunk to twigs it seemed, and stuck out like underdeveloped branches of a shriveled dehydrated tree. And not one, but two I.V. lines were connected to him, feeding him vitamins.

“Agent Burke.”

Peter turned, now face-to-face with a balding, middle aged man wearing a white lab coat.

“I’m Dr. Hurley. If you’d please follow me.”

Not a word was uttered as he followed down the fluorescent ice-blue hallway. Dr. Hurley opened a beige door, adorned with his name on the front of it. He extended his arm toward the maroon chair, which at first glance seemed patted, but Peter knew it was a lumped mess of old cotton.

“I understand Neal is a ward of the state.”

“Yes,” Peter said, his mouth dry.

“And I’m at liberty to discuss with you his medical information, correct?”

Peter nodded. “I can . . . I can get you the paperwork.”

“That won’t be necessary," Dr. Hurley said.  "I’ve already received it.” 

“Then you can tell me, doctor, why Neal all of a sudden fainted at the office? The kid damn neared split his head open on the side of the table. If it wasn’t for Jones catching—”

“Agent Burke,” Dr. Hurley said, interrupting him.

“Sorry,” Peter said.

“That’s quite alright. Neal fainted this morning due to severe dehydration.”

Peter smirked. “That’s not possible. Neal drinks water like a fish in the ocean. I’ve never seen anyone put away what he does, especially these last few weeks.”

Dr. Hurley smiled kindly, but Peter knew he was being prepared like seasoning on a filet mignon. “Neal has a serious vitamin deficiency, not to mention he is lacking nutrients. Can you tell me, has Neal always been this thin?”

“Well . . . he’s always been on the thin side . . . but healthy, you know?  Umm, but I have noticed weight loss. Maybe 15 pounds within the last six weeks.”

Dr. Hurley nodded and made a note in his chart.

“His lymph nodes are also swollen, and there are large bruises on his back and stomach.”

Peter swallowed. “Bruises?”

“Yes. Now I understand he does a lot of physical work with the F.B.I., so it could very well be job related, but I have yet to speak directly to Neal to confirm that.”

“Please, what’s really wrong with him?”

“I can’t say with certainty, Agent Burke, but we’ve ran preliminary tests. Neal has a very high white blood count.”

“I don’t know medical terms, what does that mean?”

“Right now, it doesn’t mean anything.  I’m going to turn Neal over to the oncology department. They will be able to conduct further tests and can tell you more.”

Peter licked his lips, his dry, chapped lips. Everything around him was hot and then cold, dark and then light. “On . . . oncology?”

“Yes,” Dr. Hurley said, closing the chart.

“But, oncology is for people . . .”

“Who have cancer.”


	2. Chapter 2

Neal opened an eye; the other seemed glued shut. An intense fog clouded his brain. He focused for ten solid seconds on prying his eyelashes from each other, and he succeeded. His mouth felt like cotton balls were inside of it, but strangely, he didn’t feel as thirsty as he had been as of late.

His arms felt sore and he peered at them. Thin plastic tubes were taped to them.

“Hey,” Peter said softly. “How you feeling?”

Neal peered to his side. Peter was seated almost at the edge of a plastic navy chair.

“What . . .happened?” Neal whispered.

“You fainted.”

Neal ran his hand over his face. “The room was spinning.”

Peter nodded. He had come out of his office and was leaning against the railing. He called for Jones, Diana, and Neal to come into the conference room to go over a new case. Neal moved slowly, rising from his chair and planting his feet firmly in one place before he moved. Peter noticed that little detail. He took one step away from his desk, and then another. He watched as Neal suddenly stopped and tried to catch his breath.

Peter could still remember how his own eyebrows scrunched together, wondering whether Neal was trying to pull something. But it was no con. As soon as his feet moved again, that was it, he was going down. Jones, by sheer luck, happened to be passing by, and being the genius that he was, knew Neal’s head was going to hit the steel corner. He grabbed him by the midsection but couldn’t stop the gravity, so he went down with him.

Peter never ran down those steps so fast. He even pushed an intern out of the way, resulting in a mug of spilled coffee. “Neal?!” he shouted, kneeling down over the fallen man.

Sweat coated his forehead. His eyes opened slowly, and it was clear he had no idea what just happened. They suddenly rolled into the back of his head. Peter pressed his fingers against his neck, noticing his skin was cold and clammy. His pulse was thready.

“Call a bus, now,” he said to whoever was around him.

_Knock. Knock._

Both Peter and Neal turned towards the door. A tall man, almost 6’5, with black hair and a white coat around his frame entered. “Hi, Neal. My name is Dr. Webber. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” Neal answered truthfully.

Dr. Webber nodded, sticking his stethoscope in his ear and placing the other end on Neal’s chest. “Well, that’s perfectly normal after the episode you’ve had this morning. I’d like to conduct some test, though.”

“What kind of tests?”

Peter bit his lip. _It could be nothing, he thought. There’s no need to frighten him._

“Just some blood tests.”

“And . . . what is it that you are looking for?” Neal asked. He may have been physically weakened at the moment, but this doctor had no idea who he was speaking to.

Dr. Webber smiled, not wanting to concern a patient. “Possibly a vitamin deficiency. We’ll know more after we get the results. Just relax.”

An uneasy feeling formed in Neal’s stomach. He knew the doctor’s smile; in fact, he knew it from a mile away.

That was not a _good_ smile.

 

 

Neal drank a full glass of orange juice and ate one-and-a-half cookies after his blood tests. Peter urged him to eat a few more and he did, because quite frankly, he was too exhausted after the thousand questions the doctor had asked him to argue.

“You don’t have to stay, Peter.”

“I know that.”

Neal nodded and said no more. Neal knew he didn't have to stay either. He didn't like hospitals, not as much as Mozzie, but to a degree. He just hated being fussed over. His brain, the entire morning, urged him to leave, sign out AMA, but his body wouldn’t let him. In fact, his body had not been too kind to him as of late. Achy joints, soreness all over, constant dizziness and exhaustion, lack of appetite. If this indeed was due to a vitamin deficiency, it was worth a wasted day in this beige room to find out.

 _Matlock_ was on one of the three channels and Neal left it on for Peter, because he knew he was going to fall asleep.

It was close to two in the afternoon when Peter felt his cell phone vibrate against his hip. Diana was calling him. He saw Neal’s sleeping form and stood up. He grabbed his jacket, deciding to get some fresh air while on the call, and exited quietly.

_Knock, knock._

Neal was a light sleeper and opened his eyes. Dr. Webber was standing next to his bed, a chart in his hand. He took the chair that Peter had been sitting in all morning and pushed it towards the railings before taking a seat. 

“Neal, I got your blood work back.”

Neal sat up. He read people’s faces for a long time and Dr. Webber’s was neutral. But Neal could see this was forced. This was his ‘game face’, the face he had constructed over the years when delivering unfavorable news.

“Your blood count was abnormal, specifically the white blood cells. They are very high.”

Neal nodded. “Okay.”

“Everyone has white blood cells, Neal, they fight infections in our bodies. However, when someone, like yourself, has too many, they can experience fever, weight loss, and fainting spells.”

“Do I have cancer?” Neal asked.

Dr. Webber didn’t answer right away. He had been briefed by Dr. Hurley on Neal. He was a ward of the state, works for the FBI, a con man, absolutely brilliant.

“I can’t definitively say yes or no, Neal. I’d like to perform a bone marrow biopsy so I can give you one though.”

Neal could feel his eyes burning—those tears wanted to fall, but they didn’t. Instead he nodded.

“Okay,” Dr. Webber said, taking out a piece of paper from his folder. “I’ll need you to read this and sign it. It’s a consent form. I’ll have the nurse come in and prep you in a few minutes.”

 

 

When Peter returned a half hour later, he saw Neal was upright and strangely staring into space.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Neal’s head jerked, startled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You okay?” Peter asked, taking a seat.

“I don’t know.”

Peter didn’t say anything. His eyes wandered around the room, finally landing on the table to his right and the consent form on top of it. ‘Bone Marrow Biopsy’.

Neal observed this—how Peter’s eyes glided over the words, how the small gasp of air hitched in his throat, how his hands or fingers did _not_ shake.

“You knew.”

Now Peter jerked his head, startled. “Knew what?”

“Peter, you know I don’t like it when you talk to me like I’m stupid. We both know I’m not.”

He sighed. “I was scared enough for the both of us. Why should I have frightened you like that? You needed to rest. And this still could be nothing, Neal. Its just a biopsy—they come back negative all the time.”

“And if this one doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.”

Neal nodded, and his face went back to blank. The shock of this new possibility still hadn’t worn off.

“Hi, Neal. I’m Nurse Laurie. I’m going to be assisting Dr. Webber with the procedure this afternoon.”

The two men looked at the door. A short, young and round woman with pink scrubs on walked in, rolling a cart full of medical supplies in front of her. Dr. Webber followed.

“Okay, Neal, ready to get this show on the road?” he asked.

Peter thought he heard Neal say ‘yes’, but it was too muffled to be sure. He had never seen Neal with a scared look on his face, and he didn’t see one now. He even appeared calm and relaxed.

But Peter knew.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

Neal turned his head, locking eyes with his friend. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

“I’m going to stay.”

Neal followed Nurse Laurie’s calm voice and turned onto his left side. His gown was pulled open and cool air hit his exposed skin.

“I’m just marking the puncture point with a marker,” Dr. Webber said. “It’s going to be on your lower back, closer to your right side. I’m then going to sterilize the area.”

Peter remained seated, watching Neal who still had that blank look in his eyes, but he quickly realized he was focusing on the blue tie around his neck. “Just grab my hand if you need to,” he whispered, placing his right one on the bed.

“Okay, Neal. I’m going to inject you with ten millimeters of Xylocain, which will numb the area,” Dr. Webber said.  “Nurse, please get ready to hand me the aspirate needle.”

Peter saw this needle, and it was quite thick.

Dr. Webber placed his left hand steady on Neal’s hip. “You’re going to feel some pressure, it’s perfectly normal,” he said.

Peter saw Dr. Webber’s right hand twist back and forth, as if he was twisting the needle into Neal's skin. Indeed, that is exactly what he was doing.

Neal inhaled a sharp breath and seemed to not to let it out. His eyes squeezed shut and Peter saw his face tense. Instinctively, he ran his hand over Neal’s head. He did this over and over again, slowly, to create some kind of calmness.  “Breathe, Neal.”

Nurse Laurie handed Dr. Webber a large syringe, meant to extract the bone marrow. “Almost done, Neal.” He handed the syringe back, now filled with dark red matter. 

He then again placed his hand firmly on Neal’s hip. “You’re going to feel pressure again, Neal. I’m going to take the needle out.”

As soon as he started to twist and turn, Neal again inhaled a sharp breath. With his eyes still tightly shut, he reached for Peter’s hand and squeezed.

“Okay, we’re done,” Dr. Webber said, grabbing some gauze. He cleaned up the faint line of blood on Neal’s back and then stepped aside. Nurse Laurie took a large piece of gauze and some medical tape and proceeded to dress the small area of his back. She closed his gown and grabbed two pillows from underneath his bed. She then placed them on his side.

“You’ll need to lie on your side for about twenty minutes. I know you’re a bit uncomfortable and sore, but that will go away. Do you need anything, Neal?” she asked.

Neal’s eyes slowly pried open. His hand was still squeezing Peter’s and it was beet red. Peter didn’t show any signs of discomfort, in fact, he smiled. Neal, a little embarrassed, let go.

Peter’s eyes met Nurse Laurie's.  “I think he just needs a minute, thank you.”

“Of course, just buzz if you need me. I’ll be right down the hall.”

He turned his attention back to Neal, not finding any words. What could he say? _See, that wasn’t so bad._ But it was! Of course it was. There had to be pain with a needle that large, even with a numbing agent. And with everything else rummaging through his mind....

A few minutes passed, all in silence.

“Thanks,” Neal whispered. 

“I won’t leave your side, Neal.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to IamNegan for sharing some personal information with me. It helped with this chapter alot. This story is for him!

The pain started behind his right eye. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Sixty seconds later, it traveled to the right side of his head and then slowly to the center. It soon rounded out to the left and entire back.

“Shit,” Neal mumbled.

“What’s the matter—”

“Shh. Lights . . . off.”

Peter turned the light over Neal’s bed off. He had experienced this with Neal before, hell, he had experienced it himself. He was sure though, that this one was brought on by the events that occurred fifteen minutes earlier. He left the room as quietly as possible, and then quickly picked up his pace towards the Nurses’ Station.

“Uh, Laurie?” Peter said, raising his hand.

The young nurse put down her pen and stood. “Yes?”

“Neal. He’s uh, having a migraine. Pretty bad from what I can tell.”

She nodded, “Sometimes biopsies trigger migraines in some patients. Hold on one sec.”  She made a beeline for the Employee’s Lounge. Seconds later she emerged with a can of ginger ale and a straw.

“Give this to him, make sure he sips on it. If he doesn’t feel a little better, I’ll give him some Imitrex through his I.V.”

Peter nodded. On his way back, he made sure to open the can before he entered the room, knowing that _any_ noise would only make matters worse for Neal.

Neal was still on his side, his face buried in the crook of his right elbow, shielding his eyes from any conceivable light that might penetrate through.

Peter squatted next to the bed and bent the straw. He wriggled it through the thin space between the bed and Neal’s mouth.

“Ginger ale,” he whispered.  

Neal sipped. Cold, crisp carbonated ginger spritzed his tongue and the back of his throat. It traveled down into his stomach, immediately helping the sickness formed there as a result of the migraine.

Peter was patient, and that was more than most could say. Neal sipped half the can before his fingers wriggled, indicating he didn’t want anymore.  Peter lifted himself, ignoring the ache in his knees. He turned his phone from ‘vibrate’ to ‘silent’ for he knew even the former would be consequential.  He then seated himself in that uncomfortable blue chair.

If Neal could do nothing at the moment but be still in the dark, then so would he.

 

 

 

Two days later

Peter walked into the FBI building precisely at 8:45 that Thursday morning. It took three minutes in the elevator to arrive at the White Collar Division. When he stepped off, he took a sip of coffee from his travel mug, though he almost spit it out when he saw who was seating at the first desk.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered, his tone closing in on anger.

“Working,” Neal answered.

Indeed, he was. There was an open file in front of him; papers were strewn across the desk, a half empty mug of tea or coffee next to it.

Peter waited until a pair of agents, who had just walked in, passed them. “I thought I told you to take it easy and rest for a few days. You can work from home if anything.”

Neal ignored him and picked up a piece of paper. “I think I figured out how the Glenn Brothers are hiding the money. I think they’re funneling it through political super PACS. If I can just—”

“Neal.”

He looked up.

Peter’s head motioned to the door. “Come with me.”

Neal let out of soft sigh and tilted his chin. He stood up and followed Peter past the elevators and down the small hallway. The two stood in silence, waiting for the other to speak first.

“What?” Neal asked, impatiently.

“I want you to go home,” Peter said.

“I’m fine.”

He did look fine, Peter surveyed, well, compared to how he looked 48 hours ago. There was a little color in his face and he didn’t seem as exhausted. In fact, beside him leaning on thin side, he looked like his old self.

“Really, I am.  And the doctor won’t have the results of my biopsy for at least six more days. Do you really just want me to sit at home, doing nothing? Even _you_ have to agree that spells trouble for me.”

Peter contemplated this. He himself had been worried nearly to the point of exhaustion, researching on the internet what kind of illness Neal might have, and it had only been two days. Elizabeth told him that although he was worried, this could still all be nothing at it was better to be distracted until an answer was given.

“Fine, but no field work. You’re going to take it easy, and if at any time you don’t feel well, you need to tell me. Deal?”

Neal smiled and extended his hand. “Deal.”

 

 

 

The following Thursday, per Peter’s daily routine, he arrived at the FBI Building at 8:45. At 8:48, he was off the elevator. At 8:49, he walked passed Neal’s desk, but immediately, he noticed something different.

It was empty.

No files, no papers, no bright computer screen.

“Hey, Diana, is Neal here?”

She looked up from her desk, “No, haven’t seen him yet.”

He nodded. He went to his office, placed his mug on the desk, and sat down. He turned his computer on but never looked at it as he was keeping his eye on the door.

He periodically checked Neal’s tracker, and saw he was at home every time.

It was 9:02 when he took out his cell phone.

“ _The caller you are trying to reach is not available, please leave a message at the tone._ ”

Peter refreshed Neal’s’ tracking information. He was still at June’s. He called Neal over and over, getting the same message.

A sinking feeling crept into his stomach as he grabbed his keys. Neal had not been showing any sign of any illness since he left the hospital. In fact, things seemed as normal as they could be under the circumstances. One couldn’t tell that Neal had a diagnosis of some kind or none at all hanging over his head. Peter himself became distracted with work. But yesterday, Neal was more quiet than usual. He also looked at his phone more than usual.

He was waiting for the doctor to maybe make an early phone call.

When Peter turned right onto the West Side Highway, he called Neal again.

“Hello, Suit.”

“Mozzie? Is Neal there? Can you put him on the phone, now.”

“Did you say something to him?”

“What?” Peter asked, stopping at the red light.

“Well I walked in this morning, at my usual time, which is ten minutes after he leaves for work, and he was just sitting there at his table, staring into space. Not to mention he’s been acting weird all week.”

“Mozzie, where is Neal now?”

“In his bathroom. Told me he was taking as shower.”

“And is he?”

“Well the water is running.”

Peter jerked to a stop at another red light. He knew Mozzie spoke in code, whether he realized he was doing it or not.

“English, Mozzie.”

“He’s crying in there. Thinks I can’t hear it. I hear everything. What’s going on with him, Suit?”

Peter sighed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

 Ten minutes later

 

“Neal?” Peter said as he opened the door.

“A Suit that keeps his word,” Mozzie said from the couch, looking at his watch. “What a rarity.”

Peter looked around the room. No sign of Neal, though he did indeed hear the water running in the bathroom. As he passed the table, he noticed Neal’s iPhone on the floor, next to the chair. 

_Knock, knock._

“Neal, its Peter. You decent?”

“I . . . I can’t come into work today. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, Neal. Can I come in? Or can you come out?”

“Please . . .” Neal said through a half sob, like he was trying to hide it. “I . . .”

“I’m opening the door.”

A wall of steam hit Peter in the face. It took a minute for his eyes to readjust and when they did, Neal was sitting on the floor, against the sink, wearing only black sweatpants, revealing a sizeable bruise on his stomach. Underneath his eyes were wet streaks, as were the same on his cheeks, though there was no evidence of actual tears.

Peter turned the shower faucet off.  He crouched down, now eye-level with Neal. “Are you okay?” 

Neal’s face remained blank. It was only when Peter touched his arm did he jerk to a state of alertness.

“Neal, what happened?”

Neal shook his head.

“It’s okay,” Peter said. “You can tell me.”

Neal swallowed and looked down at his hands. “I’m sick.”

“No, you don’t know that, Neal.”

Neal nodded his head. “Yes, Peter. I do.”

Peter bit his lip. “Did . . . did Dr. Webber call you?”

Neal slowly, nodded. He wiped his eyes on his arm and sniffled, then locked eyes with Peter. “I . . . I have leukemia.”


	4. Chapter 4

One hour earlier

“Neal, I have your test results. Would it be possible for you to come to my offi—”

“Please, Dr. Webber,” Neal said, interrupting him. “Just tell me over the phone.”

A low sigh was released from the M.D. Dr. Webber did not enjoy this part. In fact, the only part of his job that he actually enjoyed was telling his patients they were in remission.

“Okay, Neal. Your biopsy revealed you have leukemia. Acute Myeloid, to be exact. It is a type of blood cancer, more specifically in your bone marrow. Neal, this is has to be treated right away.”

Neal heard the doctor’s words, but everything seemed frozen. His hands didn’t even shake, maybe because deep down he expected this type of call. His body had never felt the way it had these last two months. But, on the other hand, he didn’t feel _that_ sick. Could aches and pains really be the cancer Dr. Webber was describing?

“Neal, I know this is devastating news, but with the right type of treatment, you can beat this.”

At that moment, Neal wanted nothing more than to get off the phone.

“Treatment will be aggressive, but you are young and strong. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, can . . . can I call you back?” Neal forced out.

“Of course. Take a moment, I know it's a lot. Do not wait on this though, Neal. You need—”

He didn’t hear the rest. It was rude, but he couldn’t. The phone fell from his fingers to the table. It hit at an awkward angle and bounced off the wooden surface and onto the floor. Neal didn’t hear the _thud._

Present time

Peter lifted Neal off the tiled floor. “It’s going to be alright, Neal.”

He guided him to the kitchen and into a chair. He noticed the door slightly ajar and Mozzie nowhere to be found, but Peter wouldn’t ponder where the little man was at the moment. Instead, he filled the kettle on the stove with water and turned on the heat. He then grabbed the quilt on the couch and draped it around Neal’s bare shoulders.

“Tell me,” Peter said. “What did Dr. Webber say?”

“How…” Neal began to say. “The FBI is going to put me back in jail. They’re going to revoke my deal.”

“Stop that. I will not let that happen.”

Neal ran his hands over his face, taking a deep breath. “How can I work cases with you?”

“You do not need to worry about that. I will take care of it. The higher up don’t have to know, as far as I’m concerned. All they care about is that your tracker stays within your two mile radius and our success rates stay up.”

“They’ll find out,” Neal whispered.

“Neal. You’ve conned the smartest, most dangerous people on this planet. You saying you can’t con some department heads?”

“And you’re okay with that?” Neal asked, finally looking at his friend.

Peter inhaled deeply and nodded, the realization of what hard paths were ahead had sunk in a little. “I’m okay with it. Now tell me, what did Dr. Webber say?”

 

Four days later

Neal arrived at New York Presbytrian Hospital at exactly 10 that Saturday morning. He had with him his duffel bag of clothes, his kindle, and a toothbrush. A nurse brought him to his room.

It was beige, of course. Beige floor, beige walls, beige sheets.

The nurse left,to get him some oatmeal and he simply sat on the bed, trying to compartmentalize what was happening. His first chemotherapy session was today, and he was terrified, something he didn’t admit to too often. But this would be the first of many sessions over the next four to six weeks, during what he learned would be ‘induction therapy’, the first of two treatments he would need, and this beige room was going to be his new ‘home’.

“Neal? I’m sorry I’m late, there was some kind of accident on the highway,” Peter said, rushing into the room.

Neal didn’t respond. The smell of plastic and sterile soap had sent him into a daze.

“Hey,” Peter said softly.

Neal looked up.

“It’s going to be fine. I’ll be here the entire time.”

“Hi, Neal, remember me?” Nurse Laurie asked with a bright smile on her face.

Neal forced a smile, but the nervousness quickly crept back into his face.

“I’m going to need to take some blood from you before you start treatment today, just to see what your levels are at,” she said, grabbing a pair of latex gloves.

Neal licked his lips and nodded.

“Okay,” she said, ten minutes later with the vial of blood in her hand. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

True to her word, an hour later, Neal was taken to the infusion floor where his vitals were taken.

“Everything looks fine, Mr. Caffrey,” a male nurse said.

Neal nodded, wondering why and how everyone who interacted with him had a smile plastered on their face.

He was soon led to a ‘suite’, which was a room with a recliner chair and a television on the wall.

Neal and Peter both waited, in total silence.

Ten minutes passed and a woman with long blonde hair and teal scrubs came in.

“Hi, Mr. Caffrey. My name is Jill, and I’ll be your nurse this session. I understand this is your first treatment?”

“Yes,” Neal said, though it was barely audible. 

She nodded. “Okay, well there’s nothing to be worried about. I’m going to take good care of you. I’m going to start an IV line with just saline solution, through your arm. And then I’m going to start another one, where the pre-medication and chemotherapy will go.”

After 30 minutes of Jill explaining how the pre-medication will help with any nausea, and how the chemotherapy session would last about three hours and how everyone has different side effects from it, if any, Neal was apparently ready to go.

She hung the IV bags, smiled, and told him she would be back to check on him. He was free to watch television, read, or sleep.

Neal didn’t feel any different, he thought, as the first ten minutes went by. He couldn’t feel the drugs entering his system, ‘killing’ the cancer cells in his blood.

“Have you spoken to Mozzie?” Peter asked.

Neal’s head shifted from his arm to Peter. He shook his head. “Not since . . . he overhead my diagnosis.”

Peter frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

Neal shrugged. “That’s Moz. He just needs some time to process it. He’ll come around.”

Peter nodded but couldn’t help but feel some type of anger towards the little guy. “Did you catch the Yankee game last night?”

Neal raised his brow and for the first time in days, actually laughed. “Did anyone ever tell you you suck at small talk?”

Peter released a laugh himself. “Elizabeth tells me all the time.”

“Well, she’s always been accurately perceptive.”

 

Two hours later

Peter added another answer to his crossword puzzle. He looked up briefly, taking another glance at Neal. He was asleep, and had been for the past half hour. Jill had come in three times so far, offering Neal an ice pop to prevent mouth sores, a common side effect during chemotherapy.

He was thinking of another answer to his game when his cell phone vibrated against his hip. Caller ID said it was Jones. He tiptoed out of the room and once in the hallway, put the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Jones.”

“Hey, Boss. How’s everything at the hospital?”

“Uh, so far so good. Neal’s asleep right now.”

“I’m going to come visit him soon, hopefully tomorrow. Peter, I know I shouldn’t bother you but something’s going down with the Glenn Brothers.”

Peter switched ears, “What do you mean?”

“Diana infiltrated them as a fake campaign manager, obviously you know that, but today one of the brothers asked if she wants to meet his boss. If she can get them to agree to take the money, we can get them.”

“Dammit,” Peter said under his breath, looking at his watch. “This would be so great, Jones.”

Jones, hearing the hesitation in Peter’s voice, said, “She could postpone the meeting, til Monday.”

Peter looked back at the room Neal was in. “We have a clear shot at taking them down. Their boss might not be available Monday. Let’s do this. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“You got it.”

Just as Peter hung up, Nurse Jill walked by.

“Uh, Jill?” Peter said.

“Yes?” she answered, smiling.

“I, uh, I have to go. Can you tell Neal when he wakes up that I’ll be back in three, four hours tops? Its something for work.” Gosh, he felt so guilty doing this.

“No problem.”

 

 

Neal awoke an hour later. Nurse Jill was to his right, replacing his I.V. bag with clear liquid, which he assumed was more saline solution.

“Hi, Neal. Your friend had to step out, he’ll back in a little bit,” she said.

Neal looked to his left. Indeed, the chair Peter previously occupied was empty. _It’s okay, he said to himself. Peter doesn’t need to hold your hand. You’re an adult._

“We’ll get you back to your room in just a few minutes.”

Neal nodded and took a deep breath. When the saline solution was gone, Neal was allowed to stand. He felt fine, no dizziness. As he started to walk down the hallway, he again realized he felt fine, just as fine as when he walked there.

_You got this._

Back in his room, he took out his Kindle and opened up the book he had been reading.

“Neal,” Dr. Webber said, walking in. “Done with your first session, how did it go? How are you feeling?”

“Um, actually I feel fine,” he said, placing his device down.

“That’s good. Just as we spoke about, everyone reacts to chemotherapy differently. If you feel any of the side effects we spoke about, just let me or one of the nurses know. It might take a few tries to get all the medications adjusted to your body depending on the symptoms.”

Neal nodded.

He was a half hour into his reading when all of a sudden, it became a little difficult for him to focus on the screen. The words just seemed to blur together. He brought the screen closer to his eyes, but that didn’t help, in fact, it made it worse. He closed it and put it on the table. He turned the television on and his anxiety was a little relived when the picture came in clear.

_See, you’re not one of those patients. You’re going to be the special one that doesn’t experience all those side effects._

And just as soon as he thought this, his stomach cramped. It passed after thirty seconds, and then ten seconds later, another came—even worse. And then suddenly he felt extremely nauseous. He almost jumped out of the bed. He didn’t even care his IV had ripped out of his arm. He barely made it to the bathroom before he emptied his stomach.

More terrible cramps enveloped his stomach as he threw up, what he believed, to be everything he ever ate in his life. It just wouldn’t stop. Fifteen, brutal minutes of this passed. “Stop,” he said aloud and to himself.

But he didn’t.

There was nothing more in his stomach, that he knew, but that urge was so strong that he felt he would be even sicker if he didn’t try.

Finally, he slumped back and against the wall. He brought his knees to his chest and willed himself to stop shaking.

“Peter?” he called out.

_Knock. Knock._

“Neal?”

He sighed in disappointment. It was Nurse Laurie. She opened the door.

He made no attempt to move, he was too exhausted. He immediately felt embarrassed as her eyes encased the scene. It must have reeked. “Sorry,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

She smiled a warm one. “No need to apologize. You want to go back to bed, or do you think you’ll need some more time in here?”

Neal took a few seconds before responding. “Bed.”

She nodded and helped him off the floor. As soon as he took a step, an immense wave of dizziness hit him and he slightly stumbled. Laurie held his arm and guided him, though she allowed him to take as much time as he needed.

After he got back into bed, she started a new IV for him. “Here are a few ice chips.”

“Is there another blanket?” he asked, not realizing his teeth were chattering.

She reached under the bed and placed the blue quilt over his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She winked. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

But a half hour later, it was déjà-vu. Neal didn’t understand how he could vomit nothing in his stomach except for a few measly ice chips. Nothing but bile came up. His throat was sore and tender, it hurt to swallow. His stomach felt as though a bat had been taken to it and now was permanently stuck up against his spine.

And then he did something rare, though it was become less of that as of late.

He started crying.

And that’s all that came out of him as his face was buried almost inside of the toilet.

Ten long and excruciating minutes later, it all still continued. Empty heaves, continuous tears.

Then he felt a strong and large palm, gently rest against his back. It went around and around, soothingly.

“There, there,” Peter said to him, as if he were a child.

And Neal never felt more like one as he did right then.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal, as he knew he would, hated living in the hospital. He hated the beigeness, he hated the sterile smell, he hated the constant check-ins and observations at two in the morning after finally falling asleep after three hours of tossing and turning.

He asked, and then he begged Dr. Webber, well into his second week of treatment, to let him go home, that he could be an outpatient.

“I’m sorry, Neal. You’re body is too open to infection right now. You need to stay.” Dr. Webber noticed the disappointment lamented in the young man’s blue eyes. “Look, hopefully in two weeks, you’ll be in remission, and you’ll be starting your postremission therapy. Now, while that will still require you to go through more chemotherapy, you will be able to do that as an outpatient.”

Neal sighed and nodded.

“I see in your chart your weight is down another two pounds.”

“It’s easy to do when you can’t even keep water down,” Neal snapped.

Dr. Webber nodded, making a note in his chart. He was not offended by the attitude. “The chemo is not only attacking the cancerous blood cells, but the healthy ones as well and unfortunately, these are the side effects. I’ll make a note to increase the dosage of the anti-nausea medication. I’m also going to prescribe you a light anti-depressant.”

“I’m not depressed.”

Dr. Webber closed the chart and placed it on the table. “Neal, this is very difficult what you are going through.”

“I’m tired, Dr. Webber.”

The doctor nodded, taking the cue.  “Just let me know if that pain in your back continues. If it does, I’ll run a test for kidney stones.”

Neal closed his eyes, not wanting to hear another word. Kidney stones, uncontrollable diaherrea, headaches, constant fatigue.  He turned onto his side, hoping what he said to Dr. Webber was true. This new bout of insomnia was really doing a number on him.

 

 

 

_Knock. Knock._

“Neal, look whose here, and look what she brought—” Peter stopped mid-sentence as the sight before him made the air inside his throat hinge.

Neal was in his bed, upright. Dr. Webber had his stethoscope out. Nurse Laurie hovered on the other side, holding a metal basin under Neal’s chin. Long, gooey, crimson blood spewed through his teeth, coating his lips, and then flowed from his mouth.

His coughs were wet and loud, and it seemed he couldn’t get a breath in though he desperately tried. And what was worse, it could not be told whether it was tears or sweat that reflected off the fluorescent lights above him. His fingers, decorated in a light layer of maroon, were clenched tight, with heaps of the blanket balled into them as he fought to regain some sort of balance.

Peter turned around, almost sending Elizabeth and her freshly frosted strawberry shortcake to the ground. “What are you doing, Peter?” she said, stumbling back.

He grabbed her arm, balancing her and shut the door behind him. With his hand still on the handle, he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t look at his wife, not yet, for the red strawberries on that delicious vanilla cake took a hold of him. They glistened, bright and red, and shined from the glazed sugar coating them. Then he thought of the red, strawberry filling that would spill upon the steel blade that would futuristically cut through.

“Peter!” Elizabeth said, raising her voice. “Sit down, hunny, you’re trembling.”

“We . . . we can’t go in right now,” he finally managed, taking one of the two seats in the hallways.

Elizabeth could see the way her husband’s face had paled and how his eyes went long and drawn. His demeanor was exactly like this the day he found out about Neal’s diagnosis. Not even an earthquake could shake him from his thoughts.  It was how she knew at this moment that whatever he had seen, it was bad. Really, really bad.

“I think I need some fresh air,” he said after a full three minutes of silence. He looked at her, and she could immediately see the pain in his eyes. He was on the verge of tears, though there were no water drops in the vicinity. It was one of those anomalies only a spouse could know of another, along with all those other deep, dark secrets.

“Of course, hun. I’ll wait here.”

He thanked her with his eyes. Only she could know he wanted to be alone without actually having to say it.

 

Once Peter got outside the entrance doors, he turned left and then right. His feet didn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know why. But then, when he got the side of the building, and his feet did stop, he did know why. He grabbed the pot the shrubbery to his left lay, bent over, and vomited.

It wasn’t the blood that made him sick—he had seen enough in his line of duty—it was the repulsiveness.

Neal was in such pain, such an unfair amount of it. And it ran so deep that it was felt by those around him.

Neal was not a bad person, he may have done some bad things, but he was a good person at the end of the day. Plus, he was serving his time, making up for it. And he never took a life, so why was his trying to be taken away?

Peter’s stomach finally settled and he stood upright. He leaned against the wall and took out his cell phone. He then dialed the number he dialed everyday for the past three weeks, the same amount of time that Neal had been in the hospital.

Just like all the other times he called, no one picked up.

Well, Mozzie theoretically could run forever, but it was a well known fact that Peter was one of the few in this world that could find those who didn’t want to be found.  

 

 

 

Dr. Webber emerged from the room nearly an hour and half after entering it. His white lab coat had various spots of raspberry tone on it. His shoes had the bulk of the blood on it, but it wasn’t that noticeable. He was upset, to say the least. No, not by the destroyance of his clothes, but by the suffering he had just witnessed. And was it not at his hands, he perversely wondered from time to time.

Tests had revealed the cancer in Neal’s blood was not disappearing as fast as he hoped for, and so last week he raised the dosage of chemotherapy, certain Neal could handle it. While medically sound to do so, the side effects naturally got more intense. It seemed to be working, there was already a slight improvement in the blood work, but unfortunately, the dosage had to stay at its current level.

“Dr. Webber?”

He turned, not surprised that Agent Burke had called his name.  

“Peter. How are you? My, that is a fantastic cake you’ve got there.”

Peter didn’t smile; he couldn’t force one, not now, especially as he stared mindlessly at the stains on the white coat. “My wife, she made it, for Neal. She was here, but it’s late now and I finally convinced her to go home.”

The doctor nodded, understanding. “Well, I’m sure Neal will appreciate it.”

“I … uh, I don’t want to give this to him anymore.”

Dr. Webber frowned. “It’s perfectly fine for Neal to eat something sweet. I’m sure you are aware we're trying to keep his weight up.”

“No, it’s not that . . . I should have brought him something healthier, like a protein bar, right?"

“You saw what happened in there, a little while ago. I noticed you came in and left.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped forward. “Yes.”

“Peter, sit down here with me.”

Peter followed, right back to the chairs he and Elizabeth sat in earlier in the evening.

“Now, I’m not a therapist,” Dr. Webber began, “but I’ve been doing this a long time, almost twenty years. I’ve seen a lot that comes with this territory. I’ve seen the angry patients, the sad children, the even sadder parents.”

“Is this the part where you make me feel better?” Peter asked.

Dr. Webber smirked and nodded. “I’m not God, Peter. I can’t tell who will live and who will die, but I try my damndest for my patients so they live. However, there is one small factor that usually, not always, but usually allows me to see who will live.”

“Which is?”

“The fight.”

“The fight?” Peter repeated.

“Yes,” Dr. Webber said. “you can see right away who is fighting to beat this. Some roll over and just take it, and others beat the hell out of—sometimes with more force than the cancer is trying to beat them with.”

“Neal is a fighter, I know that, and he's gotten out of a lot of things in his life . . . but . . . I'm afraid . . .”

“You need to fight too.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Peter. Just like in boxing, the fighter needs to hear it in the background from his coach, telling him when to punch right, when to duck left. It sometimes makes them go even harder in the ring.”

Peter bit his lip, replayed the doctor’s words in his head, and nodded. “You're right. Thank you.”

“You can see him if you’d like, for a few minutes only. Please though, wear this,” Dr. Webber said, taking a paper mask from his pocket. “He’s prone to infections at the moment.”

 

When Peter entered, Nurse Laurie was gathering the stained blanket on the floor. She gave him a small smile and left soon after.

He placed the cake on the table and pulled the blue plastic chair towards the bed.

Neal was on his side, asleep. An oxygen mask covered his mouth. Aside from the coat of sweat layering Neal’s skin, he seemed peaceful. The blood had been wiped from his hands and the tears from his face. If Peter had come at this time originally, he never would have known.

“Keep fighting, Neal,” he whispered.  


	6. Chapter 6

“You’ve got to eat,” Peter said, glancing up from his newspaper.

Neal’s eyes lifted from the bowl of now cold oatmeal. It was thick, beige mush, and no doubt tasted better on the way up. He ran his hand through his hair in light frustration, forgetting that a few strands would come back in return.

“You’ve got your chemo soon,” he said, looking back down at the paper. “You need something in your stomach.”

Neal’s eyes once again drifted to Peter, watching as he went about _his_ morning. So he lifted the bowl, the plastic spoon now cemented in it, and threw it at the wall in one swift motion. It exploded, to say the least, to the right of Peter’s head. Most of the beige grudge slid down the wall, specks of it landed on the floor and Peter’s shirt. The plastic orange bowl _popped_ to the ground.

Peter was quick to respond, rising up, letting his newspaper and pen fall to the ground as he did. “Jesus, Neal! Whats a matter with you?!”

He didn’t respond, but his heart raced—just a little. The two men locked eyes. There was curiosity in both of them.

“What? You're not going to answer me?”

Neal did, by pushing the beige tray, complete with an uneaten apple and half full cup of water, off the bed stand in front of him. It _clanked_ to the linoleum floor.

Peter took a deep breath, but he didn’t move. “Look, I get your angry. I’d be angry too, and if you want to take it out on me that’s fine—”

“I’m _not_ angry,” Neal said defiantly.

“Fine. You’re not angry. You’re upset.”

“No.”

“Sad.”

Neal chuckled sarcastically. “Far from it.”

“Then what?” Peter asked, raising both arms in frustration. “You’re not angry, you’re not sad—”

“I’m dying. That’s what I am!”

Peter’s mouth went dry. His arms lowered. His eyes cascaded to the wall—to the splattered oatmeal, to the fallen tray, to the spilled water. Finally, his eyes met Neal—the blue ones, full of conviction of the con he had willed himself to actually believe in.

“You’re not dying.”

Neal nodded, pushing the bed stand away. He ran his fingers through his hair, then opened his palm and watched as the strands fell. He then reached for his gown and pulled it down, revealing the skin all the way down to his stomach. He ran his fingers over his now protruding collar bone, and then down over his predominant rib cage and of course, the bruises.

“But I really am.”

“The side effects—”

“And then you sit there and tell me to eat my oatmeal, right before I get wheeled off to have that _poison_ injected into me.”

“Neal—”

“I’m too weak to walk.”

“I’ll help you.”

“I don’t want you to stay today,” Neal said, pulling his gown up. “It’s going to be bad, I can just feel it.”

“Hi, Neal,” Nurse Laurie said, coming into the room. “Ready to go? Oh, what happened here?”

Peter and Neal’s eyes remained locked, neither speaking, but saying everything. Peter’s head eventually bobbed up and down, and then he turned and left the room.

 

 

Neal’s head laid on his arm. His arm laid on the toilet bowl. He struggled to breath, but accepted the deep wheezes coming in an out as good enough.

The pain in his back shot up in an excruciating way. He couldn’t tell whether it was his position or the kidney stones, which Dr. Webber confirmed he had.

His stomach lurched again and he emptied the liquid in it, the only thing that could come out.

He felt large hands underneath his armpit, pulling him away from the toilet. His back now rested against the cool wall. His eyes were closed, but he knew who was there.

“I’m sorry,” Neal whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Peter said, wiping his face with the damp washcloth. It pained him, so greatly. Neal’s repeated phrase sounded like a plea, like he was begging God to stop it.

A few minutes later, Peter put his arm around Neal’s disappearing waist, feeling only the bones his body was made of, and guided him slowly to the bed.

After Peter settled himself in the chair, he simply sat in silence. He listened to the small sobs escape Neal’s mouth, watched at the tears finally fell from his eyes.

“It hurts,” he said.

“I know,” Peter said.

“Make it stop. Please. Please, make it stop.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, commanding no tears be shed. He had seen Neal vulnerable. After Kate, after Ellen, after his father. But he put his shield up—his smile, claiming he was fine. And Peter had seen him weakened, physically, these past four weeks, but again, there was muster—cultivated deep from within—shooed hands and sarcastic jokes, conning those around that it would take more than _this_ to stop him.

But this . . . this right here was different.

Neal had no smile, no hands up as shields.

Neal was defenseless.

Neal was defeated.

And Peter simply couldn’t accept that.

“Look at me, Neal,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

And Neal did, letting the tears colonize in the corner of his red eyes. They fell eventually, cascading down his gaunt face.

“Don’t give up,” Peter said. “It hurts, I know. But you are stronger than the cancer, that I also know, and you have to know it, too.”

Neal shook his head and sniffled. “You wouldn’t say that if you were laying here instead of me.”

“But you would be saying it to me if I was, wouldn’t you?”

Neal was silent as he wiped his tears away. “Yes,” he eventually said.

Peter nodded. “I’m going to get Laurie to give you something for the pain, and then you and I are going to discuss what you’ll be doing next week after your blood work comes back that you’re in the clear in a few days. You hear me?”

Neal swallowed, trying to hide the soreness in his throat, and nodded.

As Peter stood in the hallway, now outside the closed door of Neal’s room, he took a minute with his eyes closed and wondered if Neal could truly believe in his words more than him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Peter’s eyesight dipped through the twenty people or so. Their eyes zoomed into their bright LED screens, their noses deep in their recyclable cups. The aroma of espresso beans and scones waifed through the air.

There was no doubt he had been ‘made’, but that didn’t stop Peter from acquiring the intended target of this operation. He pulled back the chair, letting its legs scratch the wooden floor beneath it, and sat himself in it. He stared at the man across from him.

It took more than a few minutes for either to speak.

“I didn’t abandon him,” said Mozzie, finally.

“Of course not,” Peter said. His tone was neutral. It was unclear whether he was being sympathetic or on the verge of throwing his chair into the mirror on the wall above them.

“I don’t do hospitals. Neal knows that.”

“But you do coffee shops in New Jersey,” Peter said, turning his head.

“I’ve sent him plenty of cookies,” Mozzie said.

Peter bit the inside of his cheeks, willing himself not to explode. “Get up,” he said in quiet but definitive tone.

Now, Mozzie had seen Peter, or ‘the Suit’, as he referred to him many times before, upset. He had heard him raise his voice and point fingers, but Mozzie was no fool, and he was quite certain the man before him was crossing into unchartered waters.

Mozzie followed Peter outside to his black BMW. The two sat in the car parked on the side of the street.

“I don’t need a guilt trip, okay? Neal will pull through—”

“Look,” Peter said, interrupting him. His cell phone was in his hand.

Mozzie’s lips parted but no words came. He looked at the picture. Neal was asleep, the background of the hospital no doubt surrounded him. Wires and tubes, an oxygen mask. His paled face was beyond gaunt. His scalp, while it had hair, was adorned with various bald spots.  In short, he looked absolutely terrible.

“He is going to pull through. I know it, he knows it, you know it,” Peter said, putting the device away. “But if you don’t start acting like the friend you know you are, then there are going to be big problems.”

“I . . . I…didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Of course you didn’t. How could you? You would have no way to know.”

“I’ll go with you right now, to the hospital.”

“No, you won’t.”

Mozzie’s eyes widened. Now he was the one who looked angry. “I fucked up, okay, Suit? I get it. But you won’t tell me what I can and can’t do—especially when it comes to Neal.”

Peter’s faced reddened with even more anger. His hand on the steering wheel turned even redder as he gripped it. “You have no idea! About anything! Come and go as you please?! When it was _me_ who has been there, day and night.”

Mozzie’s featured softened slightly. As much as he didn’t want to hear these words, he needed to.

“You think _I wanted_ to be there? No!” Peter screamed. “See him fight for his life? But I was!” And as the words that he fantasized about dribbled off his tongue, unexpected tears followed.

“It’s not fair,” he sobbed. “It’s just not fair.”

Mozzie sighed, knowing his words were not about him being the watch dog, but about Neal.  So he let the Suit cry and vent his frustrations. After five minutes, the sobs eventually subsided.

 

Meanwhile, at the hospital

Neal was on his side, though, he couldn’t actually feel it. Everything was numb. Perhaps it was the morphine. Perhaps Dr. Webber had shown some mercy and given him too much of it before the bone marrow biopsy, which was happening at the moment.

“Okay, Neal,” Dr. Webber said, tightening his hold on Neal’s hip. “The needle is coming out.”

Neal took his hand and wiped the tears falling from them. He didn’t have a good reason for them today.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, stopping the turning of the needle.

“No,” Neal whispered. He sniffled back the remaining tears, waiting for the procedure to be done.

Dr. Webber sighed and placed his hand back on Neal’s hip—well the protruding hip bone, to be correct. He had seen his fair share of patients throughout his twenty year career. This case had been particularly aggressive, but he was amazed how Neal fought. But Dr. Webber knew Neal was in pain, if not physically then emotionally.

The chemo had taken his energy, his weight, a lot of his hair. It even threatened to take away his spirit. And  now Dr. Webber was taking more from him—a sample of the inside of his bone marrow.

“Okay, Neal. We’re all done,” he said, placing the medical tape over the gauze. He handed Nurse Laurie the sample and she left the room to take it to the lab. Dr. Webber maneuvered his stool to the other side of the bed so he was now face-to-face with his patient.

Neal was staring at nothing and only turned his attention when Dr. Webber lightly grazed his arm.

“Chin up, Neal. Your last chemo session was three days ago. Hopefully we get some news from this biopsy. If we do and the cancer is gone, you can go home and start your post-remission therapy.”

“That’s more chemo, though, right?” Neal asked.

Dr. Webber nodded. “Yes, but you’ll be able to do that as an outpatient. That will make things easier for you, psychologically.”

Neal sucked in a short breathe and sighed.

“You sure you’re not in pain?” the doctor asked, checking the machine to his right.

Neal didn’t answer. He refused to.

“Where’s your buddy?” Dr. Webber asked, referring to Peter.

“Hey, doc?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

Neal blinked tiredly, “for taking such good care of me.”

Dr. Webber nodded. “It’s my job, Neal.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, staring at the paper in his hands. “The tests say there is no more cancer in his bone marrow, so why does he still need to do chemo?”

Dr. Webber took off his glasses and proceeded to clean them. “For the past five weeks, Neal has been undergoing induction therapy—with the goal of killing as many cancer cells as possible, to the point where none exist. That has been achieved. Neal is lucky—

“Lucky?”

“He’s only had to go through one round of this. I’ve had patients go through several.”

Peter nodded.

“Now, this next phase is post-remission, some call it maintenance therapy. The reason for it being if there are any stray cancer cells the tests didn’t catch, this nukes ‘em.”

“Dr. Webber . . . he’s so … tired, and I hate to say it, weak. He needs a break.”

“If Neal doesn’t do this right now, there’s a 90% chance the cancer will come back.”

“Will it be worse than the first round?”

“I understand your frustration, Peter, but the fact of the matter is the more intense the chemo and the closer the courses are together, the less chance the leukemia has of returning. Unfortunately, this needs to be as intense as possible. So, every four weeks, for five days, he’ll receive chemo. He’ll need to do this four or five times.”

“But he can go home?”

“Yes. He needs to take it easy, still. A lot of rest. We also need to bring his weight up. His weight is down to almost 130 pounds.”

“Jesus,” Peter muttered.

 

 

“I’d really wish you’d reconsider,” Peter said, holding out a pair of socks.

“I’ll be fine,” Neal said, taking them.

“With me down the hall, Elizabeth bringing you cookies—it’ll be like you’re at a hotel.”

Neal chuckled. “Aren’t you sick of me?”

“C’mon, I’m borderline obsessed with you. That’s why I put that damn anklet on you.”

“The State of New York put the anklet on me, Peter. I’ll be fine at June’s.”

Peter sighed and nodded. “Alright, let’s get you home then.”

 

 

 

It took Neal 15 minutes to climb the stairs. He gripped the banister with all his weight against it and sweat the entire time. His legs had not been used like this in a while. It frightened him actually, just how quickly his body was willing to age in a matter of weeks.

“There you go,” Peter said, encouragingly. They were at the top now, a mere ten feet from his room. Peter removed the hanker-chief from his front pocket and patted the sweat on Neal’s forehead away. Neal watched his face closely.

“There better be nobody on the other side of that door,” he said, catching his breath.

Peter’s top teeth slowly bit down on his lip.

“Dammit, Peter,” he said.

“C’mon, it’s not a big deal. We want to celebrate your remission.”

“Yea, and I have to go back tomorrow for more chemo. Let’s all party.”

Peter sighed. “It’s just some cake, okay? Just Jones, Diana, June, Elizabeth, Mozzie.”

Neal looked up. “Mozzie?”

“Yes.”

Neal looked down at his body, at the clothes he was wearing—the last outfit he wore when he left this same apartment—they were now two sizes too big. He then ran his fingers through his thinning hair.  “I look like shit.”

Peter shook his head. “You don’t. You look great. And even if you did, nobody here cares about that. We just care about you.”

Neal sighed and eventually nodded. “Okay.”

 

 

“Hi!”Elizabeth squealed.

“Caffrey, there you are,” Jones added.

Neal smiled, looking at those who were standing in his kitchen.

“Neal,” June said, “my dear.” She opened her arms and engulfed him gently. Neal rested his head on hers, breathing in her jasmine perfume. When he finally pulled away, she had tears in her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’m fine. Just like I said I would be when you saw me last week.”

She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “I’m just happy you’re home.”

“Hi, Neal,” Diana said, coming forward with baby Theo in her arms. He had a small box in his hand.

“Oh, what’s this?” Neal asked him.

He held it up to his nose, where he then tried to stick it in his mouth.

“Theo,” his mother said, taking it from him. “It’s for you. It’s from Jones and I, actually.”

Neal smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth embraced him next. “Welcome home,” she said, patting him on the back.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, let’s get down to business. Blueberry pie or chocolate cake. How about a slice of each?”

Neal chuckled. “You’re going to make me fat, you know that?”

“And what if that’s’ my goal?” she threw back.

“It’s a wonder Peter is even in shape.”

“Please, he’s not allowed to have this.”

Neal nodded, suddenly feeling lightheaded. He breathed in deep and steadied his feat, hoping it would pass. Peter noticed it right away. “C’mon, let’s take a seat and eat some cake,” he said.

The next twenty minutes were pleasant ones. Neal in that time, actually felt ‘normal’. It was just another afternoon, in _his_ apartment, surrounded by people who cared about him, laughing, eating sweets. He didn’t hear the word ‘cancer’ or ‘treatment’. No one looked at him like he was about to break.

As Peter and Jones were getting into a debate about the new upgrade of guns their department was receiving, Neal’s attention drifted to his left, towards the balcony. In a chair near the ledge sat a bald man with glasses. A glass of red wine was near his feet.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” Neal said, rising.

Peter stood simultaneously. Elizabeth grabbed his arm, gently pulling him back down.

Neal was relieved the chatter continued as he opened the door. He stepped outside, thankful it wasn’t too cool. He neared the chair his friend sat in.

Mozzie’s head raised slightly, as did his eyes. They seemed to dissect his counterpart slowly. He noticed everything: the way his legs swam in the cloth of the pants draped around them, the way his sweater hung off his certain emaciated frame, how his cheekbones sunk in.

Neal was the first to speak. “Hi, Moz.”

The short man stood and neared closer to Neal. The two men locked eyes. Mozzie saw the redness surrounding the blue, the tiredness, the achiness. He gave no warning and grabbed Neal, wrapping his arms around him. Mozzie felt the bones, his spine, his ribs. It sickened him.

“Goddamn you,” he said.

“I know,” Neal said, patting him on the back.

“Neal, I’m sorr—”

“Don’t. I understand. I wouldn’t want to see me either.”

Mozzie pulled away. “You’re the closest thing I have to family. I wanted to come, I just couldn’t watch you d—”

“Stop, Moz. It’s fine. More importantly, I’m fine.”

Mozzie looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “Are you?”

Neal ran his hand over his face. “I hope so.” Ironically, Neal felt his knees shake. Mozzie could see it in his face and led him to a chair. Neal sat and took a deep breath.

“So you beat this bastard?” Mozzie asked.

Neal chuckled. “Yes, but I’m not done.”

Mozzie bit his lip. It was hard to see Neal right now, obviously weakened, almost a shell that dared to break at the drop of a pin. Listening to him breath, as if he were on the verge of wheezing almost mad tears shred. And then anger rose at the realization that he wasn’t there because what he was seeing right now wasn’t the worse of what Neal had endured. This was supposed to be _better_.

“I’ll be there this time. I promise.”

Neal offered a smile, like he knew that’s what he would say. It was also a smile that assured Mozzie that it would be okay if he wasn’t, because Neal knew the man before him and didn’t want to hurt him with what all of _this_ entailed.

“How’s it going out here?” Peter asked, opening the door and stepping outside. “Neal, you better not be drinking wine.”

“No, Peter,” Neal said, turning his head around. “I’m not.”

“Okay, good. So . . . you two okay?”

Neal gave a nod and turned his head back to the grand view of New York City. His eyes veered to his right, pinpointing on Mozzie. “We’re fine.”


	9. Chapter 9

Neal awoke at 6:45 the next morning. It was early, but he had not felt this rested in a long time. He knew it had to do with not being poked or prodded by a nurse. It also had to do with the fact that he was in _his_ bed. He laid there for an hour, just appreciating his surroundings and the comfort the mattress underneath him was providing.

He looked at his phone after it buzzed twice. The text message was from Peter.

‘ _I can drive you to the hospital after lunch, it looks like a slow day here.’_

Neal responded. ‘ _Chemo got moved to tomorrow, thanks.’_

Neal didn’t like lying to Peter but he felt he had to. Although he was weakened in every way possible these last weeks, he could also see the toll it took on his friend. The constant worrying, the hidden tears. No, no more. Neal would keep his post-remission therapy to himself as much as he could. Besides, he was cancer-free at the very moment. He could do this on his own without worrying anyone about it.

Another hour of laziness later, Neal conjured himself out of hibernation. He made some tea and actually felt hungry, so he cut himself a piece of left-over pie.

By 11 he was in a taxi, and at 11:30, he was seated in the ‘lounge’  with an IV in his arm.

By the end of the session, he was still feeling fine. No migraines or dizziness. He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the elevator.

But when it lurched down, his stomach lurched as well.

It was a miracle he was able to make it off at the next floor, and an even bigger one that he made it to the men’s room. With his coat still on, he leaned over the bowl and chucked up his breakfast.

“Dammit,” he whispered, spitting remnant spit. He never vomited this quickly after a session; it usually took an hour for him to feel queasy.

“Sir, are you alright in there?” a voice asked.

“Fine,” Neal answered.

“Do you want me to get a doctor?”

Neal’s lips parted, to say ‘no’, but the nausea hit him hard and he emptied whatever was left in his stomach.  “I’m fine, thank you,” he finally managed.

After a few minutes of hesitation, Neal heard the man leave. He wiped the perspiration off his forehead and counted slowly in his head, a relaxation tip he picked up along this journey. When he reach ‘500’ his stomach had finally settled. He emerged from the stall and made his way to the sink.

“Shit,” he said aloud and to no one as he gazed in the mirror. His face was pale and ashen. His eyes red and tired. He washed his hands and rinsed his mouth out, noticing his spit was tinged a reddish-pink.

He finally made it outside onto the sidewalk, shivering almost uncontrollably as he hailed a cab. It was 77 degrees out, but he gripped his jacket over his bones tightly.

The ride should have taken no more than ten minutes, but there was traffic, so it took twenty-five. The constant lurching, back and forth, as the taxi hailed to a stop didn’t help.

“Hey, you alright, man?” the cabbie asked, glancing in his rearview mirror.

Neal gripped the handle to his right, closing his eyes, willing his stomach to calm down. _There’s nothing in there!_  “Fine.”

He would have to apologize to June for vomiting on her azaleas.

Inside, he was finally on the tenth step, gripping the banister, when his legs gave out. They shook so hard his entire body trembled. He sat, as quickly as he could, still holding the rail tightly.

Then the migraine came.

It wasn’t _too_ awful; he had worse, but they were still painful nonetheless.

“Neal?”

He opened his eyes. Mozzie was in front of him, his were eyes wide.

“Fine,” he whispered, closing his eyes again.

He heard footsteps, as if someone was going down the stairs. Minutes later he heard them again, this time coming up. He opened his eyes to see Mozzie holding a can of Sprite with a straw already in it. Neal took a few sips.

A few more minutes later, after his breath was caught, after his migraine deemed him to feel somewhat mobile, he slowly rose. Mozzie stood beside him and followed him slowly up the stairs,

Once he finally got to his room, he didn’t even bother to remove his jacket, he just went straight for his bed, pulling the covers over his body and his head. All the lights had to be blocked.

The softness beneath his back actually helped and he fell asleep rather fast. He doesn’t know how long it lasted but the next time he woke, he stomach was cramping. It traveled up his throat and he couldn’t fight it. he threw the blanket off him, saw Mozzie at his side with the garbage bin. Neal leaned over just in time and gave it his all.

“Oh, God,” he whispered, rolling onto his back. He breathed loudly, demanding his lungs cooperate.

“Do you want me to the call the doctor?” Mozzie asked.

“No,” Neal whispered.

 “Okay,” Mozzie answered, nodding his head.

 

When Neal opened his eyes again, the sun was in the process of settling. Hot orange and yellow amber infiltrated his apartment—now he only wished his insides were as warm.

He reached for the blanket on the chair near the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders. He realized his coat was still on but that wasn’t enough.

“Do you want some tea?”

Neal turned slightly, seeing the short bald man sitting at his kitchen table, looking up from a book.

“Please,” he answered.

Mozzie placed the steaming cup on the bed stand. Neal yearned to touch it, feel the intense heat, but he saw his hands were shaking badly.

Mozzie took to the chair and sat. After a few minutes, watching Neal shiver uncontrollably in silence, he spoke. “Is this . . . is this what it was like? In the hospital, I mean?”

“Yes,” Neal said. His tone dripped in defeat.

Mozzie nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“No. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I know I already said it, and you said not to worry about it, but I do. I’ve been sitting here the last 8 hours, watching you, in this indescribable pain. I should have been there, and I wasn’t.”

“I was glad you weren’t there, Moz. I . . . I had some really bad days, things happened that I didn’t even think the human body was capable of doing. Why would I want you to see that?”

“The Suit saw it,” Mozzie said.

Neal nodded, reaching for the tea. “He did. And do you know how much that hurts me? He can never . . . unsee that.”

“So I feel damned that I wasn’t there, and the Suit feels damned that he was. And you’re stuck no matter what.”

“Shitty all around,” Neal said, placing the cup back on the stand.

Suddenly, Neal felt his stomach lurch. _No, you will not vomit. Enough is enough. It was just a few sips of tea!_ He sat up quickly, his hand on his stomach. He looked around and saw the garbage bin in the sink.

“Are you going to be—”

Neal didn’t hear the rest. He pulled back the blankets and jolted to his bathroom. His legs turned to jelly by the time he got to the door. He fell to his knees, hitting the floor hard.

And that was it.

He never made it to the toilet.

His hands rested against the cool tiles of his bathroom and he let it all out.

_Such a fucking weakling, can’t even make it two more feet._

The liquid clogged his airway, coming out in warm spurts. He was choking, he was goddamn sure of it.

The pain in his stomach escalated.

He knew the tears were there, falling onto the floor, mixing in with his sickness.

He felt Mozzie’s presence near the door. Neal put his hand up. “No,” he said firmly. “No.”

“Neal,” Mozzie said.

“Please,” he said, sniffling. And another wave came. He couldn’t stop it. he closed his eyes and let the sickness, once again, take control.

 

 

“Neal, I’ve called like six times—”

“Suit, this is Mozzie.”

Peter looked down at his phone. ‘Neal Caffrey’ was the name on the screen. “What’s wrong?”

“Look, maybe I’m not as good at this stuff as you are, fine, but I think you should get over here.”

Peter, already in his car, and about to turn onto the Brooklyn Bridge, made a sharp right and proceeded to turn around. “Mozzie, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I . . . I don’t know if this is normal. I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

Peter got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Okay, you have to tell me what going on. Neal has his first post remission chemo tomorrow, if he’s really sick before that—”

“He had chemo today,” Mozzie said, interrupting him.

Peter bit his lip as he turned onto the West Side Highway. He was afraid Neal would pull something like this. Dr. Webber warned Neal, more than once, that the post-remission chemotherapy would be aggressive, and might be even tougher to deal with because his body was so weakened by the first round.

“Moz, I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

 

 

Neal had managed to grab the towel hanging over the rack. He placed it on the floor, over the ‘mess’ he had made. He then crawled to the toilet, slowly, realizing any rash movement would send him over the edge.

He peeled his jacket off, feeling the perspiration under his arms and on his back. It was like an inferno now.

His tongue and throat felt dry, yet they burned intensely. He spit in the toilet and cringed when he saw the reddish-pink tint.

_Knock. Knock._

The door opened.

Peter and Neal locked eyes. There was no anger in the brown ones and no remorse in the blue ones.

Peter didn’t say a word as he turned the faucet on and rang the excess water from the washcloth. He knelt down and cleaned Neal’s hands, then his mouth.

“Think you can stand?” Peter asked after a few minutes.

Neal sighed. “No.”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

“I might be vomiting blood.”

Peter swallowed hard. Those were never good words, but it was more than the words, he thought; it was the way Neal said it. Such simplicity and acceptance. This was his life right now and it was expectant. Peter reached for Neal’s chin, placing his thumb on it and pulled down slightly. Red stained his teeth, but the gums on the bottom revealed the red and white abrasions.

“Mouth sores,” Peter said.

Neal exhaled; it should have been a sigh of relief, but it was shaky and tinged on fear.  “Sometimes . . . I don’t know if I can do this again, Peter.”

“Nobody knows if they can do anything,” Peter said, folding the washcloth, “unless they try.”


	10. Chapter 10

“You alright?” Peter asked, glancing to his right.

Neal failed to answer; not because he didn’t want to, he was just too tired to open his mouth. He was leaned back in the front seat of Peter’s BMW, lazily staring out the window. He had just finished his chemo for the day. He didn’t feel as nauseas as yesterday, but he felt lethargic as ever.

“Should I turn the heat up?” Peter asked. It was already more than warm inside, but Neal’s circulatory system was so out of whack that the 72 degrees outside could have meant below five.

“Elizabeth is making beef stew. It probably won't be ready 'til later. I’ll bring some over,” Peter said, continuing his lone conversation.

“I’m going to shine so brightly,” Neal rattled low under his breath.

Peter glanced at him with his eyebrows low. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Neal said, never taking his eyes off the sidewalks they passed.

Peter luckily found a parking spot right in front of June’s large estate. He opened Neal’s door and helped him out of the car. Neal didn’t protest.

Peter followed him up the stair. He was doing well the first step and the second and the third. He slowed down on the fourth, and on the fifth he knees completely buckled. He gripped the banister as his back curled. Peter quickly grabbed his arm.

“Let go,” Neal said, shaking out of his grip.

Peter waited. He waited for Neal to catch his breath and it never seemed to come. He grabbed a hold of his arm and Neal once again wrangled out of it.

“I can do it!” he shouted. The anger that just burst fueled his desire and he went up three more steps.

He never got any farther.

His knees hit the wood. Peter grabbed his arm before his chin hit the ninth stair. Neal wheezed for air, for control, for anything. His entire form slumped and Peter made no attempt to lift him. A sharp sob escaped Neal’s lips, it was quickly muffled and transformed into a stream of steady quiet ones. After a few minutes, he was silent again.

“You ready?” Peter asked.

“I meant what I said, in the car,” Neal said, his face still closing in on the wood. “I’m going to shine the brightest.”

Peter sighed. “I don’t know what that means.”

Neal lifted his head and turned slightly to the man next to him. “When we die . . . I think our souls turn into stars. You know, in the sky at night? Mine is going to be next to the North Star. You’ll always be able to find it, I bet.”

Peter bit his lip and shook his head. “Well, no one will be able to find it for a long while, Neal.”

“Or maybe . . . maybe you’ll never see it,” Neal said. His tears were coming out at a rapid pace. “Maybe I have no soul . . . maybe the bad things I ever did is why this is happening to me.”

“Stop it, Neal.”

Neal was hyperventilating now.  “I’m going to die, Peter, and no one is ever going to think of me because they can’t find me!”

Peter quickly grabbed his arm and pulled him to a sitting position. He pushed his head down gently in between his knees. He rubbed circular motions on Neal’s back until he heard the air seep into his lungs, over and over again. Peter couldn’t help but wipe his own eyes, but he never let Neal let on. He led the sick man’s head up.

“You’re going to be fine, Neal. Believe in yourself. Where’s that infamous, devilish charm you’re always working on people, getting them to believe anything you say? Try it on yourself.”

Neal’s face was motionless and then it cracked suddenly, warping into another wall of pain and tears. “I tried, I really tried, Peter,” he sobbed.

“Okay, okay,” Peter said rubbing his back. “Shh. It’s okay. Listen, today is just a bad day, that’s all.”

Neal wiped his tears on his sleeve. “I can’t walk up these stairs. I want to, I do. I just can’t.”

Peter nodded. “I know that. And it doesn’t matter that you can’t, the point is you tried.”

Neal nodded, sniffling back tears. “I . . . I can’t do anything anymore. I can’t eat, I can’t look at the case files because I can’t seem to focus on anything for more than a minute, I can’t get warm, I can’t get cool—”

“It’s alright, Neal.”

“I don’t want Mozzie to see this. I saw the look in his eyes yesterday—”

“Relax, please, Neal,” Peter said, cutting off his rambling. “Don’t work yourself up anymore than you need to. Come back to my house, let Elizabeth and I help you.”

Neal shook his head. “I can’t do that to you both.”

“Dammit, Neal,” Peter said, take his hand off his back. “This pressure you’re putting on yourself, to do this alone, isn’t helping, in fact, it’s doing the opposite. You’re spending all this energy, which you don’t have, on trying to shield all of us. Well it’s not working. I’ve seen what the cancer can do, it’s awful, yes, but I’m still here, trying to help you.”

Neal shook his head, “Peter—”

“No,” he said, standing up. “You want to shield me from this? You can’t, and that’s too damn bad. I bet I spend more time fighting with you than helping you, and that leaves you in a worse position. Elizabeth and I want to help. We care about you. You’re family to us. Christ, we even converted the downstairs office into a bedroom for you before you even left the hospital.”

Neal sighed. “You did?”

“Yes, dammit. Now, please, stop fighting me on this—”

“Okay,” Neal said, interrupting him.

Peter’s mouth didn’t close, surprised Neal acquiesced so quickly. “Really? Okay?”

Neal nodded, blinking tiredly. “Yes. You’re right. I’m tired of fighting you off. I’m tired of everything.”

“Okay,” Peter said, a small grin was on his face. “I’m going to pack you a bag.”

Neal nodded. He pulled his jacket tighter around him as he listened jealously to the creaks Peter’s feet made as they ascended.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Peter called from the door.

Neal sighed, his eyes wandering from his ankle towards the front door--he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mentioned this before, but I will continue to say it with each chapter I post. This story is for IamNegan, a brave warrior of life.

It had been two months into his second stage of the chemo when the pain in his left knee started. Neal convinced himself it was just a deep bruise from when he hit the floor too hard. He had lost count how my many tile floors they rested against by now.

_Knock. Knock._

“Neal, sweetie, I’ve got some soup for you,” Elizabeth said, entering. She was holding a tray, a bowl with steam rose from the top of it.

“Thanks, Elizabeth. You didn’t have to,” he whispered from the bed. He finished his five day treatment three days earlier and was still absolutely weakened. It would take him three more days to feel somewhat functional again.

She unfolded the little legs of the tray and placed it over his stomach. She propped the pillows up so Neal could eat, or at least attempt to.

“It smells delicious,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Peter should be back soon,” she said, taking a seat in the armchair. “He just took Satchmo for a walk.”

Neal nodded and picked up the spoon. He swirled it around in the bowl, though made no attempt to bring it to his lips.

“Not hungry?” she asked.

A sudden and immense pain jolted within his knee. He dropped the spoon as he cringed.

“What’s wrong?” she said, standing up.

He put his hand up. “It’s fine, it’ll pass.”

Not wanting to push him, she nodded and slowly sat back down.

The pain did pass and Neal breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Elizabeth . . . what do you …”

“What do I what?”

“What do you think happens when we die?”

Neal studied her face. There was no transformation of one emotion to another. In fact, the only look she displayed was one of deep thought.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she said, finally.

Neal nodded. It was honest, at least. She didn’t immediately try and quell his thoughts, she didn’t sit there and convince him of something else.

“Part of me would like to think we go to heaven. Rainbows and angels, that kind of thing,” she said. “And then sometimes I think it must be like what happens when we’re asleep—we don’t even know it. And that doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel anything when I’m sleeping, you know?”

Neal nodded. That was true. This comforted him.

“People who pass away, they’re not in pain. It’s only those they left behind that are,” she said.

“It’s a terrible pain,” Neal said. And he would know.

“It is,” she said. “But we find comfort, wherever we can. Whether it’s a memory or a picture, or the fact that we were lucky enough to know them when they were with us. The people we love are never forgotten, ever, so in a way, they never really leave.”

Neal nodded; a small grin etched into his lips. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

She returned a small smile of her own. “Now eat, that soup is getting cold.”

 

 

 

The following Thursday came and went. It rained all day long.

Neal had felt relatively fine, and laid in bed most of the day.

It was around 4 in the afternoon when another migraine came.

He tried sitting still in the dark and an hour later, it finally subsided.

And then at 6 in the evening, his stomach, which had been very good to him the last two days, turned on him.

Violently.

But it didn’t end there.

As soon as he stood up, the pain in his knee attacked. He didn’t even take one good step before he fell, landing on the floor next to his bed.

It hurt, all of it.

He screamed—something he had never done.

Glass broke.

Feet hurdled.

“Neal?” Elizabeth said, coming through the door. She took the scene in. “Oh, God. Mozzie, call 911, now!”

Neal tried to shoo her away, but he couldn’t seem to get his hand to cooperate. Elizabeth crouched over him. She grabbed a towel and attempted to wipe the blood, spilling from his mouth, away.

But that little cloth never stood a chance.

It smeared her hands, it would stain his clothes, it would darken the wood underneath him.

“Neal, honey, stay away, okay?”

He screamed again—loud, gut wrenching screams.

The sound burned into her ears.

 

 

“Hey, El,” Peter said, pressing the elevator button, “I’m just getting out now. Do you need—”

“Peter,” she said.

The elevator door opened, but Peter did not step on. He listened to her breathing. It was too fast. The doors closed. He was in the same spot outside of them.

“You need to come to the hospital.”

“Wh-what . . . what happened?” he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Just get here,” she said. Peter could hear the sobs. “Now.”

 

 

“El!” Peter said, racing down the florescent lit hallway of the hospital. He doesn’t know how he got there in fifteen minutes, seeing as it was rush hour traffic. His mind was in a total daze. Perhaps he used his sirens. He doesn’t remember.

Elizabeth turned around, away from Mozzie, to her husband.

Peter stopped in his tracks as he saw the red. A stain in the shape of hand on her white skirt. The maroon color on her fingers. Underneath her eyes were streaks of black eyeliner and mascara.

“Is he dead?” Peter asked.

Elizabeth sniffled.

“Is he dead?” he asked again.

She shook her head. “I really thought he was though.”

“What happened?” he asked. He thought his heart was going to explode any minute.

“I . . . I don’t know. One minute he’s asleep, Mozzie and I were having coffee in the kitchen, the next minute . . . Neal is screaming. I ran to his room. There was just so much blood. He was on the floor, he fell.”

“He cut himself, break a glass?” Peter asked, looking at her hands.

“No, it was just coming out of his mouth . .  .like water,” she sniffled.

Peter pulled her into his arms. “Where is he?”

“He’s getting an MRI,” Mozzie said quietly. “These fascists! I mean, these doctors won’t tell us a damn thing.”

Peter nodded as he rubbed Elizabeth’s back. Suddenly, the exact man he needed, not wanted, to see appeared. “Dr. Webber!” he said, moving towards him.

Dr. Webber appeared to have aged at least ten years between now and the last time Peter saw him, which was last week. He looked exhausted, and his usual firm stance seemed slouched.

“Peter,” he said.

“What the hell is going on? Where’s Neal? Is he okay? Can we see him?”

Dr. Webber put up his hands. “Please, calm down. Neal is fine, he’s asleep.”

Peter nodded. Up, down, up, down, up, down. “Can I see him?”

Dr. Webber licked his lips, then shook his head. “I’m afraid not right now.”

“Why the hell not?” Mozzie interjected.

The doctor looked at the trio, who at the moment was ready to tear limbs and rip heads. Unfortunately, he was their most prime prey at the moment. “Neal needs to rest, I’m sorry. It would be to his disadvantage to have visitors at the moment.”

The three just stared at him; fire in all their eyes.

“You need to listen to me on this,” Dr. Webber said firmly.

One by one, their shoulders dropped. Defeat.

Peter was the last to do so.

As they all turned, presumably towards the door, Dr. Webber spoke again. “Peter, as you have medical privilege to know of Neal’s condition, it would be best if you came with me.”

Peter didn’t feel his feet moving, but they were. He had a terrible feeling in his stomach, in the pit of it. The hallway to Dr. Webber’s office seemed miles away as he followed the white coat.

He would almost give anything to turn around.


	12. Chapter 12

Everything within Peter’s eyesight became nothing more than a blurry vision. His hearing also became defective. To a certain degree, that is. He heard the words ‘metastize’ and ‘radiation,’ but other than that, he was deaf.

“Peter?” Dr. Webber said.

He looked up, finally coming back to reality, which unfortunately, had become darker than it was a mere hour ago. “I don’t understand, He was in remission. He was cancer-free. You said this post-chemo would just rid him of any stray cancer cells.”

Dr. Webber nodded. “There is much we don’t know about leukemia. A person can be in full remission, for years even, and then it just comes back.”

“Bullshit,” Peter responded. “You know what Neal went through, you saw it! And now you’re telling me the cancer is back, no not even. You’re telling me its stronger than before and its in his bones now!?”

“With aggressive radiation therapy, in conjunction with more chemo, Neal has a shot,” Dr. Webber said, delicately.

“A shot?” Peter repeated, almost in disbelief. “The kind of treatment you’re talking about is going to kill him faster than the cancer ever could. He can barely handle the chemo.”

Dr. Webber sighed. He removed is glasses and ran his hand over his face. He broke every time he had this conversation. “It’s a risk, Peter, but this is his best option.”

 

 

Neal’s eyes peeled open. Beige, this is the color he saw. He sighed, realizing it wasn’t a terrible dream . . . but, maybe he was still asleep, because he also realized he didn’t feel any pain in any part of his body. His eyes opened wide and his hope quickly dissipated as he saw the IV in his arm. Morphine drip, probably.

Neal also realized he wasn’t alone. Peter was seated in the corner. There was no crossword on his lap, no phone, no nothing. His chin simply rested on his hand and he stared deep into space.

“Hey,” Neal whispered.

Peter barely heard him, but it snapped him out of his daze. “Hey,” he said, forcing a grin on his lips. “How you feeling?”

“Okay,” Neal answered. He slowly pushed himself upright, using the button on the side to lift the mattress to 90 degrees.

Peter remained quiet, watching Neal. It went on like this for several minutes.

“Did I ever tell you that I once stole a dog?” Neal said.

“No,” Peter whispered. He had no idea where this was going, but so help him he would keep that grin on his face.

“I was 8. I really wanted a pet, my mom said no, that I couldn’t handle the responsibility. There was a family who lived a few blocks away, they had two dogs. A golden retriever and a yorkie.”

“Let me guess, you wanted the golden retriever?”

Neal nodded. “There was an old woman who lived in the apartment above us, she had a german shepard. I offered to walk him and she said yes. So for a week I walked the dog right in front of the other family’s house, always at the same time.”

“And when was that?” Peter asked.

“Right when the father got home from work, 5:45.”

“So he asked you to walk his dog, too?”

Neal nodded. I noticed that every time he walked into his house, his wife would scream at him to walk the dog. He would always be so pissed, he just wanted to relax.”

“And let me guess, you even charged him for your ‘services’?”

“You bet I did. Ten dollars a walk. I earned about $50 bucks before I decided to keep him.”

“How long did that last?”

“Two weeks.”

“Pretty long time,” Peter said.

“I trained that dog not to bark. My mom never noticed him.”

“How’d you get caught?”

Neal locked eyes with his friend, a small devilish grin on his face. “I never said I did. I felt too guilty about it, Saw  the missing dog signs around the neighborhood. I tied his leash to their mailbox, and that was it.”

Peter could have laughed, chuckled, even shook his head in disbelief. He didn’t do any of those things, instead he brought his hands to his face and cried. Long, drawn sobs that filled the entire room.

“Peter,” Neal said.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

“It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” Peter said. He wiped his eyes and looked at Neal. “You’re not.”

Neal sighed and closed his eyes. “I know the cancer has spread, Peter.”

“You do?”

Neal nodded and chuckled. “Of course I do. I’m smarter than Dr. Webber, and you for that matter.”

“Neal, don’t joke around.”

“What would you like me to do?”

Peter shook his head, “I don’t know.”

“I have to fight, just like you said to, right?”

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. “Of course. I . . . I thought you would be more upset.”

“I think I used that feeling up, to be honest,” Neal said.

“So you’re going to do the treatment?”

Neal licked his chapped lips, “Yes.”

Peter nodded but did not feel any form of relief. In fact, he felt only the shallow pit in which had cemented itself in his stomach.

Peter studied Neal at that moment. He was bone thin, perhaps even more so than the flimsy gown he had on. His hair was thin, desperate to con any naïve citizen that he was not sick. He was pale and gray, no glow anywhere. He did however, appear to be ‘at peace’, despite this harrowing new information. There were no tears or mentions of the dark days surely to come, and to Peter, this was alarming.

But Peter forced himself to find comfort. Neal’s overall message was clear: he was not going down with a fight.


	13. Chapter 13

“Alright, Neal,” the technician said through the intercom. “We’re going to start now. Remember to stay very still.”

Neal remained quiet. He was alone in the room, lying down. A large white machine was in place over him. Dr. Rian, his radiation oncologist, explained it would be painless; as if he were getting an x-ray, except larger doses of high energy waves would be beamed, in this instance, in his chest. Unfortunately, further tests revealed the cancer had metastasized to his lungs. Dr. Rian was hopeful in explaining that this procedure would target the cancer cells, and that by being hit with high doses of radiation, it would make it harder for them to split and reproduce.

“Neal, I’m right here,” Peter said. He was on the other side of the glass, looking at the video monitor.

Neal took a deep breath; Peter’s voice through the speaker calmed him somewhat.

The whole procedure took about twenty minutes, though Neal had now been on the exam table for approximately 45. It took time to set up and for the radiation team to get the correct angle for the treatment. His bare chest now sported two semi-permanent dots. This was to ensure the correct spots would be hit for future treatments.

“Okay, Neal. We’re all done. You did very well,” the technician said. “We’ll see you again tomorrow.”

 

 

 

Dr. Webber sat at his desk. A large file was open in front of him. He skimmed the pages, hoping it would say something different than the previous five times.

“So that’s it? That’s all you can say, there’s been no change?” Peter asked. His voice was hinging on the angrier side, though the constant thumping of his leg, up and down, up and down, said he was frustrated—nervous, even.

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Webber said.

Peter nodded, the anger growing by the second. He grabbed the first thing he saw, which happened to be a cup holder. He lifted it and threw it at the wall.

It rained pens.

Blue, red, black, green.

“Increase the dosage then! Give him radiation treatments two times a day, dammit!”

“Peter,” Dr. Webber said softly, “even if I pumped Neal full of every chemotherapy known to man, it probably wouldn’t change things. It would only kill him quicker. He’s down to 118 pounds as of this morning. I’m sorry.”

Peter stared blankly at the doctor. “So . . . so what now?”

“We stay on course. We’ll continue the radiation and the chemo, give Neal as much as he can take, and pray for a miracle.”

Peter laughed, sinisterly of course. “I thought _you_ were the miracle.”

 

 

 

Neal didn’t say much, or anything at all in fact, as Peter pushed the wheelchair.

“Hey, you want me to raid the vending machine? I think they have kit-kats in there,” he said, stopping at the foot of the bed.

Neal failed to respond. He had just finished another radiation session, and although he wasn’t in pain, he was trying to figure out how he was going to maneuver himself out of the chair and into the bed.

“Neal?”

“I think . . . I think I want to sit by the window.”

Peter glanced around the room. “Okay,” he said, pulling the chair.

Once he was seated in place, he pulled his sweater tighter across his chest, feeling the chill through the fiberglass.

“Do you need a blanket—”

“You know,” Neal said, interrupting him, “a kit-kat sounds good. Would you mind?”

Peter shook his head. “Of course not. I’ll be right back.”

Neal waited until he heard the definitive steps leave the room. His shoulders slumped and he cradled his face in his hands. He didn’t cry, he truly didn’t feel like it.

“Neal?”

His head popped up and turned. Standing there at just five feet was June, dressed in a beautiful navy suit. Here elegance and grace always amazed him.

“You should be in bed, resting,” she said, stepping inside the room.

He smiled. “There will be plenty of time for that.”

She took the empty chair next to his and sat down, placing her handbag on the floor near her feet. She grazed his arm and then ran her fingers up towards his chin, turning his head so he faced her. “You need some sun, my dear.”

“I need a new body, is what I need,” he said, sighing.

“Uh, uh. No pity, Neal.”

He chuckled. “Of course.”

“How was the radiation treatment?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said. He didn’t mention that he was feeling extremely fatigued, or that the skin on his chest was burning.

“You know, Neal, I was thinking, when you leave here and come back home, perhaps we can do some redecorating. Perhaps turn that closet into an art studio?”

“That would be nice,” he said.

“But you don’t think you’re coming back home, do you?” she asked.

He inhaled. And then he exhaled. He did this two more times. Thinking about the answer was part of it, and then there was the rumble in his stomach and his internal insistence that it quiet itself down. A pain in his back surged and he cringed slightly.

His body wasn’t breaking . . . it was broken.

“I’m sorry, June, I’m feeling very tired at the moment.”

She smiled warmly, though there was much sadness to it. “Of course, dear. I’ll come back tomorrow—with some of that tortilla gumbo you like. Jonathan just made a whole batch of it at the house.”

She stood and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He grazed her arm and inhaled her petal rose perfume.

“Thanks, June.”

She left as quietly as she arrived. Once in the hallway, she picked her white hankerchief from her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes. It was only when she turned to her left that she noticed Peter standing there, alone against the wall. Two kit-kats were in his hand along with two single tears in each one of his eyes.

 

 

“Goddammit, Peter,” Neal said, slinking out of his arms. He grasped the side of the toilet with both hands. “I told you, just leave me here. Go home.”

“And I told you, I can’t do that,” he responded, running the washcloth underneath the sink again.

“It’s 3 o’clock in the morning,” Neal said right before emptying the contents of his stomach again. Today he had his regular chemo and the radiation. Every part of his body was in pain. Neal lifted his head up, gasping for air. He fell against the wall exhausted.

Peter flushed the toiler and knelt down. He patted the washcloth against Neal’s sweat laced forehead. And then he cringed—he just couldn’t help it—as he watched Neal struggle for air.

“Let’s get you back to the bed, you need the oxygen mask.”

“Just . . . just give me a minute,” Neal said, his eyes squeezed shut—as if commanding his lungs to cooperate.

Peter obliged and took a step back.

“I stole six Monets, real ones,” Neal said.

“Neal—”

“They’re in a warehouse in New Jersey. Mozzie is the only one who knows where. Say the word ‘cuckoo bird’ and he’ll give you the address.”

“Stop it,” Peter said, the anger in his voice spiked.

“I also have eight million dollars stashed in Swiss banks. The account numbers are hidden behind the fireplace at June’s. They’re under three different names. George Phelps—“

“Neal—”

“Frederick Monsone—”

“Please, stop—”

“Michael Twaine.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, but that didn’t stop the tears from falling this time. “Why are you telling me this?”

Neal retched into the toilet again. Nothing came out. He grabbed the edge of the sink to his left and hoisted to himself up—or at least tried to. He got halfway before his arm started violently shaking. Peter was quick and grabbed his waist, ignoring the damp sweat that drenched his shirt.

Neal winced as he took a step towards the door. He showed no shame in leaning most of his weight against Peter as they neared the bed. He sort of fell on the mattress and moved extremely slowly in picking himself up.

Peter fiddled with the oxygen mask. His fingers were shaking and he couldn’t seem to untangle the small plastic tubes.

Neal breathed heavily and placed his hand on Peter’s. Peter looked up, knowing his wall of tears wouldn’t stay in place for much longer.

“It’s going to be okay, Peter,” Neal said firmly.

“It’s. . . I . . . don’t think,”

“You’re going to be fine.”

“You can beat this, Neal,” he whispered, the tears had long fallen.

“I know that, Peter. But you have to entertain the possibility that I won’t,” Neal said calmly. “I’m not saying that because I’m feeling ‘down’ on myself, okay? I’m saying that because I don’t want you to wake up one day and feel like something was taken from you without any warning.”

Peter bit his lips, letting the words float—but certainly not allow them to settle. Neal Caffrey, the man before him, was a shell. All bones, all pale, all pain. He was disintegrating right before his eyes, and Peter was too selfish to admit it to himself.

“Will you eat some jell-o?” he finally asked, sniffling back the unfallen tears.

Neal sighed, mostly to himself, and nodded. “Cherry please.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I want to go to Paris,” Neal said during the fifth inning of the baseball game.

Peter turned away from the screen. “Well, I’ve already removed your anklet,” he said. Factually so, Peter turned a blind eye and let Mozzie manipulate the powers that be of the world wide web, letting the Marshals believe Neal was within his two mile radius for the past eight months. Peter felt he didn’t need to burden Neal with such things, not with everything else going on. “So once your immune system picks up, we’ll go.”

Neal sighed and turned his attention back to the game. Not that he was focused on it, but more so than the beige covering the never-ending fun that made up these hospital walls.

“I’ve never been to Paris, so it should be fun—”

“You still don’t get it do you?” Neal said, interrupting him.

Peter remained silent, though he knew the answer.

“Just one more time,” Neal said under his breath.

For reasons Peter couldn’t properly explain to himself, though he would replay this moment for years to come, he stood up, turned the television off, and threw the blanket off Neal’s body.

“What are you doing?” Neal said.

“Where are they?” Peter muttered, bending down. “Ahh, here.” He took the sneakers out from underneath the bed. He then took Neal’s arm and forced him to sit up. But he didn’t stop there; he forced Neal’s legs out so they hung over the mattress. Peter then proceeded to hastily shove the sneakers on Neal’s feet.

“Well, let’s go. I don’t’ have all day,” Peter said.

Neal eyed the man in front of him.

“What?” Peter said, almost taunting him, “was that all chicken-shit, what you said? You want to go to Paris, let’s go.”

Neal remained silent.

Peter’s jaw remained clenched, an unbelievable soar of anger rose through him. “Let’s go, I said,” Peter stated, grabbing a hold of Neal’s arm. He roughly hoisted him up, ignoring the grimace etched into his face. Peter, with his arm still grasped around Neal’s, took his free hand and grabbed the IV bag off the hook. He started to walk, almost dragging Neal behind him.

“Stop,” Neal said, trying to break free.

“What the matter?” Peter asked, though it was far from sincere.

“Stop, Peter. Now.”

“No,” Peter said, pulling him towards the door. “You want to go to Paris, let’s go then. I’m ready.”

“I was just thinking out loud,” he said, wheezing. “Peter, stop. You’re hurting me!”

“Well you’re hurting me!” Peter shouted back, hastily letting go of Neal’s arm. Due the excessive force, it swayed back and forth, just once, and then quickly, his whole body crumpled, down and down, all the way to the linoleum ground.

Neal felt like a bag of rocks, plummeting to the bottom of the ocean. His body made a  _thud_ when it came into contact with the cold floor, and what was worse, he just laid there, too weak to move. He breathed heavily as waves of dizziness crashed down hard on him.

“You sit here, day after day, convinced you are going to die!” Peter shouted up from above him. “Like you’ve accepted it and everyone just better get used to it! You’re supposed to be fighting, but it’s so clear you are just playing to lose!”

“How can you say that?” Neal said. His voice shook terribly, like he was crying—but he was not. “I want nothing more than to live. I’ve had how many treatments? I’ve vomited how many times? You call that ‘playing to lose’?”

“Every day now, it’s like you’re reciting your last will and testament to me. It’s awful to hear,” Peter said, his tone softening with each passing word.

“You need to hear it.”

“There you go again.”

“Why can’t you accept it? I’m not giving up, but maybe this is stronger than me. Don’t you see how much pain I’m in? You do!,” Neal cried though labored breaths. “You don’t know what this feel like!”

“I do!”

“No, you don’t!” Neal shouted with all his might. “Look at me! You know what I would give just to stand up right now? Just like you’re doing? “

Peter’s shoulder slumped forward. Neal was fighting. He fought everyday he opened his eyes. He had gone to every treatment, experienced almost every reaction to it, and then went back for more. Perhaps the problem lied within Peter and his inability to believe that Neal had strangely crossed over from a fantasizer to a realist.

Neal let out a string of sobs. “Oh, God. Why is this happening to me? I’m scared, Peter. I’m really fucking scared.”

Peter knelt down on his hands and knees. He ran his hand over Neal’s head, trying to soothe him. He felt the sick man shaking, trembling it seemed. Peter scooped his hand underneath Neal’s chest and lifted him. Once he got Neal settled on the bed, he removed the sneakers and placed the blanket over his body.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Neal said, his eyes fighting to stay open.

Peter smiled and shook his head. “No, Neal, you have nothing to be sorry about. If anything, I should be the one to apologize. I’m sorry. You’re a fighter, I know that better than anyone. I just got frustrated and that’s not your fault.”

Neal nodded once, and then three seconds later, he was asleep.

 

 

 

“Is this all of them?”Mozzie asked, holding the envelopes.

“Yes,” Neal said, keeping his eyes on the sketchpad in front of him. His hands were gray and dirty, smeared with charcoal. He applied more pressure to the piece in his hand, darkening the tip of the Eiffel Tower he was close to finishing. “Thanks for coming. I know you don’t like hospitals.”

“Please, I love them.”

Neal chuckled as he shaded the grass on the paper in front of him. “Turning over a new leaf, Moz?”

“Just expanding my horizons.”

Neal nodded. He placed the initials ‘NC’ in the very corner, signaling to himself that he was done. He placed the stub of charcoal on the tray to his left and then lifted the paper in his hand up. He stared at it and a smile engulfed his face.

“Might be your best one yet,” Mozzie said, leaning over.

“Hang it up?”

Mozzie nodded and affixed it to the wall using medical tape. He sat himself back down. The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

“Do you remember the Lockturn Heist?” Neal said.

A smile spread across Mozzie’s face. “Only you could have convinced those guards you were a prince from the Royal Family.”

Neal nodded, a smile was also on his face. “What’d we make out with? Three ruby necklaces?”

“Don’t forget the two diamond tiaras.”

“That’s right. And we snuck out of Buckingham Palace through the caterer’s van that you stole.”

“Borrowed,” Mozzie corrected him.

Neal chuckled. “Yes, borrowed. Did you ever fence those tiaras?”

Mozzie cleared his throat. “I fenced the necklaces, but not the tiaras.”

A shock of pain radiated throughout Neal’s stomach. He winced as he shifted his body. A series of wet coughed followed. Mozzie grabbed the cup of water on the bed stand and brought the straw to his lips.

“So where are the tiaras?” Neal asked after finally catching his breath.

Mozzie placed the cup down, a sad smile now washed over him. “I was saving them. One for me, one for you. I thought we would give them to our wives one day.”

Neal locked eyes with his friend of so many years. He sighed. “Give mine to June.”

After a long minute, Mozzie nodded, accepting the request, though he knew he was accepting much more than that.

Neal turned his attention to the wall, mesmerized by his own art. “Looks like the real thing, doesn’t it?”

“That it does, mon frère,” Mozzie said. “That it does.”

 

 

 

Peter rose at 7 a.m. that morning. He could have slept till 8, even 8:30, as he had recently taken a leave of absence from the bureau, but his mind wouldn’t allow it.

He made his coffee extra strong that morning, estimating he would need it. He wondered around his empty living room, and for some reason didn’t take a load off in the armchair. His feet made their way to his office; he dared not to enter it. Simply, he leaned against the wooden door frame. The bed had been moved back upstairs, his desk and chair were back in place. It was as though Neal was never here.

But that dark maroon stain was.

One big splotch, stained forever in his wooden floor, perpendicular to the corner of the desk.

Peter could replace that plank of wood at one point in the future.

He wasn’t sure he would, though—depending on how things turned out.

 

 

 

It was colder than usual, Peter thought, realizing it was nearing April. The sliding hospital doors opened and warm air brushed past his face and instantly heated his body.

No one was in the elevator. He checked his watch. It was almost 11.

He heard the screams as soon as he stepped onto the floor. They were far away and not alarming in the least. Rather, these screams were pleas, filled with sobs. And Peter knew they belonged to Neal even though the recognizance of his voice was undetectable.

“No, please. I don’t want to go to today,” Neal sobbed. He was upright in his bed. Dr. Webber stood over him, his hand around his thin arm, the other on his back gently trying to guide him to the wheelchair.

“It’s alright, Neal,” Dr. Webber said. “I will up the anti-nausea medication.”

“I don’t want the chemo,” he said as more tears fell down his face. “It hurts too much, please.”

Peter’s heart twisted, then it turned, and then it shattered for the millionth time it seemed. Dr. Webber’s eyes met his as he neared the bed. Peter took a hold of Neal’s hand.

Neal looked up, locking eyes with him. Peter saw his were red, exhausted, a great deal of sadness in them. “I can’t do it today,” he said with defeat in his voice.

Peter didn’t respond.

“I can’t!” Neal screamed. “Don’t make me, please.”

“Shh, okay,” Peter said, nodding. He looked at Dr. Webber. The doctor’s eyes were uncertain but he exhaled and nodded and lifted his hand off his patient. He left the room soon after.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said through a labored breath. “I really am sorry, Peter. Don’t be mad.”

Peter placed his hand back over his. “It’s alright, Neal. Just rest.”

Neal choked back his tears and nodded. He never let go of Peter’s hand as he lowered himself to the mattress.  They stayed like this for several minutes while his breathing became more even. “Will you tell me a story?” he asked.

Peter squeezed his hand. He watched as the lines in Neal’s face eased; his shoulders relaxed too. The tension in his entire sick and frail body was receding. “There once was a man, probably 20 or 21, who came to New York City, many years ago. He had piercing blue eyes and one hell of smile. . . ”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read this story. And thank you for your wonderful comments, they really are encouraging. 
> 
> But the biggest thank you goes to IamNegan. He is currently fighting cancer. He approached me to write this story and I was honored. His comments were truly helpful and it helped tremendously in shaping this story. Through our communications, I learned more about his brave battle and he is truly amazing. 
> 
> This story is for him and I hope he enjoyed it.

“Je vous remercie,” Mozzie said, thanking the waiter.

The tall, thin man nodded and walked away. Mozzie held his wine glass to his nose, smelled the woodsy pine and earthly grapes. It was to his satisfaction and so he took a long sip.

It was only through two-thirds of his second glass that he had enough guts to pull out the envelope.

_Dear Moz,_

_I know this letter has found you well as I am the one who handed it to you. I also know you take wishes of dying men seriously, so I have no lingering thoughts that the other letters found their way to their correct recipients. I also know you are sitting outside of Le Cade du Marche, in view of the Eiffel tower, sipping your favorite wine as you read this because it is as I asked you to do._

_Moz, you and I are one of a kind, and together, we were two of a kind. I was always surprised, and extremely grateful there were others out there like me, others with a thirst of a different life—but I didn’t know how to get there, until I met you. You showed it all to me, how to reach not for the stars, but past them. I never had much family there for me, and neither did you, so in a way, we created one—a place where you and I belong._

_Don’t be sad, Moz, please. Be happy that we found each other, had a few good  laughs, ran some amazing cons, and drank one or two of the best wines on Earth (okay, I’m downplaying that last part. We, and by we, I mean mostly you, drank hundreds)._

_Please visit June from time to time and promise me you won’t share sad stories with her about me, only good ones. I mean it._

_I know you don't like to dwell on the past, and I know you don't like to deal with unfortunate matters, which is why I have kept all  this so brief. I don't need to exploit our past and the good times we had, that's for you and me. (I know you don't want the evidence lingering around either.)_

_Try not to think of me too often, but when you do, remember to smile and not frown._

_Love,_

 

_Neal_

_P.S. I told Peter about the Monets. Tell them where they are if he asks. And don’t be a stranger to him or Elizabeth either. I know they’re ‘suits’ (there, you finally got me to say it) but they are good suits._

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth fumbled for her keys. As she finally got the right one in the door, her bag of groceries fell slid down to her feet. She groaned, pick that and the mail off the floor and proceeded into her Brooklyn townhouse.

She placed the groceries on the table and filled Satchmo’s bowl with water.

She finally took a deep breath and went for the mail. Bill, Bill, Chinese food takeout ad, and then, there were two letters. One addressed to her and the other to her husband.

There was no return address.

She opened hers up and saw the beautiful parchment. Before she even read it she glanced down at the bottom and saw it was signed by Neal. Her mouth clasped over her partially opened mouth.

 

_Dear Elizabeth,_

_I hope this letter has found you well. I know you and I haven’t always been the closest, but there are still some things that I have to say that I couldn’t in person._

_I’m sorry._

_For what, you might be asking yourself. Well, I’m sorry for dragging Peter into my life. I know we have a relationship that is hard to understand, and I know I’ve probably caused more problems from him and thus for you, than it was worth, but it was worth it to me and I know it was to Peter as well._

_I’ve probably put him in tremendous danger over the years. And I know I’ve put you in tremendous danger by virtue of some former colleagues of mine. I never meant to cause you pain._

_And I’m sorry now, for making you watch Peter throughout the whole time I was ill. I know it caused his heart to break and I wish it weren’t so. I know there were plenty of nights he didn’t come home because he was with me, and I know you pushed him to be by my side. I also know the nights he was home, he really wasn’t._

_But I am not sorry that you will be there for him after I’m gone. You are one of the most magnificent women I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You are kind and generous, you are brilliant, and you have a heart as big as the ocean. Peter is lucky to have you and I know you will guide him out of this dark tunnel._

_Thank you for taking care of me the way you did. You didn’t have to open up your home to me, feed me soup, or be as honest as you had to be when I questioned some tough things out loud. I don’t think I’ll be scared when I die, Elizabeth, I really don’t, and it has a lot to do with what you said. I think about it every day and it brings me comfort._

_Thank you for your tremendous heart and kind soul, it truly made my time on Earth more enjoyable._

_Love,_

_Neal_

 

 

 

Peter staggered down the stair lazily. It was close to eight in the evening, and he had wasted another day. It was full of sleeping and watching television. He didn’t feel like doing much these days, or any of the other ones these past two months.

He grabbed the refrigerator door, but noticed the bright pink post it on it: ‘Peter, feed Satchmo, and then please, feed yourself. I mean it this time. Also, check your mail. El.’

Peter sighed and proceeded to grab a beer. He placed it on the counter and then went to feed Satchmo, who was panting near his leg. He filled his bowl with dog food and then went back for his beer. As he grabbed the bottle opener, he glanced once more at the note. He couldn’t remember a lot these days.

Oh, yes, the mail.

Bill, Bill, Chinese food take out.

A letter from Neal.

Peter dropped the other letters, letting them fall to his feet. There was no return address but he recognized the elegant loops in that handwriting.

His breath became stuck in his throat as his whole body tensed.

He grabbed his beer and the letter and went out to his patio. He sat in the chair for several minutes, just staring at the envelope. These were Neal’s last words to him, Peter thought. Maybe he didn’t want to open it, maybe he wanted to save this, knowing that Neal and he could have one more conversation at some point in the future.

His curiosity got the better of him and he carefully opened it.

_Dear Peter,_

_I’ve always considered myself a lone wolf, ever since I was a child. I ran pranks (though you and I both know they were my earliest cons) in grade school, attended Ivy League colleges under names that weren’t mine, and . . . well you know the rest._

_Of  course I had Mozzie, and I am grateful for him, but you and I both know he’s on a different wavelength . . . or planet for that matter._

_And then I met the most beautiful woman in the world. Kate. Beautiful Kate. I still dream of her when I sleep. But she was taken from me (you also know this story), and I was back to being by myself—though, that time it hurt._

_I was able to move on, to a degree, because of one person. You._

_And that made me think. Since the time you had been chasing me, (and then caught me, yes, it was two times! I admit it, alright?) I had to accept that I would never be alone again. Even while in prison, you were in the back of my mind. You intrigued me, to say the least, and I assume, though I know I shouldn’t, that I intrigued you._

_Accepting my deal with the F.B.I. never felt like work to me. I know I struggled over the years, to leave my ‘past’ behind, and I know I did—for the most part. I enjoyed getting the ‘bad’ guys. I loved working with Jones and Diana (she’d probably roll her eyes right now), and I enjoyed you._

_You are my counterpart. We intellectually stimulate each other, and I never thought that could happen, especially with someone working to catch guys like me._

_You were never just my handler, Peter._

_You were my friend._

_You took an active interest in me and my life, always leading me to do the right thing, even when it wasn’t easy._

_And that was all before I even got sick._

_You showed me that I could have a life without crime, that it was possible to have a family if I wanted, that I could work a 9-5 and be happy, that I could be a criminal free member of society._

_This whole time I was dying (you have to admit it now), you showed me what being alive really meant. It wasn’t money, or stolen paintings, or forged bonds. You were there for me and you didn’t have to be. You were patient, more than you should have been. You let me scream and cry so many times, and you never let me feel ashamed. You encouraged me to fight and I am so grateful. If it wasn't for you, I don't think I would have held on as long as I did._

_You did everything you could, you have to believe that, and you made me believe that I did everything I could too._

_Some forces are stronger than you and I, just like how we came together as an unlikely team._

_Take comfort, tremendously if you can, that I am no longer in pain, and I would like to take comfort knowing that yours won’t last longer than it should._

_Also take comfort in the fact that I have lived more lives than most. I’ve committed tremendous, yet absolutely grand schemes, I’ve acquired (and lost) tremendous amounts of money (those Swiss accounts were just the tip of the iceberg. Don’t go looking for the rest, you’ll never find it. I promise.), and I’ve experienced tremendous love._

_Love in the form of Kate’s soul._

_Love in the form of June’s hospitality._

_Love in the form of Elizabeth’s heart._

_Love in the form of Mozzie’s twisted, brilliant mind._

_And love in the form of your brotherly friendship._

_There’s no doubt you will miss me and my dashing good looks (we both know its true), but I’ll never be far away. You will never be alone. Every night, and I mean every single one of them, I’ll be right above you, to the right of the North Star. I’m going to prove that I’m smarter than you once and for all and shine the brightest._

 

_Love,_

_Neal_

Peter put the letter down on the patio table, near his untouched beer. His hand never left the parchment though; Neal’s hand was on this parchment, not too long ago.  He wiped away his tears, the ones that had fallen moments ago, but fresh ones did not come. He felt as though a small weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Though a ton had settled there almost nine months earlier, he felt he could breath just a little bit easier. Neal had fought to the bitter end. It was messy and chaotic, full of tears and anger, but Neal maneuvered through it like he did through any sticky situation in his life, with grace and elegance, and with certainty that he would do it his way.

This letter was no different. Neal knew the end was near, long before Peter could truly accept it. Neal also knew that Peter would be a mess after wards, and so he wrote him this letter so that he could communicate with him, and tell him it would all be okay.

As Peter looked up at the dark eerie night above him, the star to the right of the North Star sparkled in a fantastic and luminous way, more so than any other night in recent times.

And Peter then truly believed, with great comfort, that Neal would never really be that far away. 


End file.
